I’m notorious for killing plants. I’ve killed nearly every plant I’ve ever had in my possession – save one, which didn’t make it on the move from the North to the East. Regardless of this known fact, one autumn when plants were really cheap at the hardware store, my husband unexpectedly came home with a palm tree.

A palm tree.

I tried to explain to him that if I struggle so badly keeping plants alive that are native to our region, how am I supposed to keep a palm tree alive? But he said he always wanted a palm tree and I should just give it at try.

It died just a few short months later.

At that time, I smugly informed my husband that I warned him of this and he should stop showing up unannounced with plants from tropical islands because I am an eastern girl living in the north and I couldn’t even grow a sunflower.

I’m on a quest right now to usher some intentionality back into my life. The moving-across-the-country saga has gone on for a few months now and I decided maybe it’s time to stop using that as an excuse for the random choices I’ve been making – or rather, not making.

So I deleted my Netflix app off my phone. I know myself well enough to know that even if I was really desperate to watch Netflix, the extra three minutes it takes to load it on the TV just isn’t worth it to me. If I can’t watch it in my bed, I will probably not get to it at all. Which has proven true. (And since it’s been exactly 36 hours, I am obviously now an expert on this and can speak with quite authority.)

I’ve noticed a slight shift in my thinking – even if it is very slight.

I have this way of projecting my own experiences into the drama that I’m watching and continually thinking about it. I start thinking that maybe I deserve to say some things to some people, too. When do I get my moment in the rain in an open field to yell all the things I want to yell at people?

Let me just say, those moments probably won’t come. Because on the off chance that I’m somehow standing in an open field in the middle of nowhere with whoever it is I’d like to yell things at, it probably won’t be raining and it will lose all dramatic affect.

Then it will just be me standing in a field. Yelling. Which is ridiculous.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not anti-Netflix. I enjoy it as much as the next person. But when there have been three – three – lessons, studies, or sermons in the past week that have pointed me to the idea that I need to be more intentional about my time if I’m going to grow as person, in relationship with God, and move on from the past, I start paying attention.

I don’t know how long this will last. I’m giving it a week for now, I don’t want to get too ahead of myself. But I want to start the idea in your head of asking you – what are you keeping alive?

I think the main reason the palm tree died was that I didn’t pay attention to it. I think I probably watered it once  because I figured that palm trees were used to not getting rained on. I neglected it and it died on its own.

Maybe the key isn’t always taking things head on and trying to understand them and talking through them or standing in fields yelling about them. Maybe it has more to do with starving the things that don’t bring the fruit of joy and peace, and feeding the things that do.

Just some thoughts from my couch on this quiet, Netflix-less afternoon. Because now I have time to write.

I have never wrestled with a post more. I have written, rewritten, thrown away, went on contemplative drives, yelled at my computer, tried to make sense of it all and I have come to realize one thing: I am not fighting the post, I am fighting myself. Such is the process of writing from the middle…

My dear friend, Audrey, often says something to me that sometimes irritates me but I know she’s right:

“The only way out is through.”

I never wanted to be that person who had days where I was immobile, fragile, or debilitated. I never wanted to be the person who cried through every church service, in the middle of small groups, during coffee conversations. I didn’t want to be someone who carried pain.

We have this way of trying to escape our pain. Inside us there is this desire to learn to live outside of, away from, or past our pain. We think if we can resume normal life, it’ll somehow dissapate on its own.

My darling, this is not true.

I’ve been emoting my way through Cheryl Strayed’s book Tiny Beautiful Things where she answers letters from people who are troubled, scared, hurt, betrayed, lost, etc. So many of the writers ask the same question: how do I move on from here? Her answer is often so simple: You find a way to live in your new world where these things have happened and become part of you.

I recently had a similar conversation with my counselor. I get in this rut of thinking if I can just get things to look and feel the way they did before the storms ruined them, we would all go back to normality and somehow I could live outside of the after math.

That’s not going so well.

Last year, before the storms hit, my hair was long, my body was fit and healthy, my brain was sharp. Since then, all these things have changed – I cut 15 inches off my hair, had multiple surgeries, a concussion, pain in relationships, loss of friendships, deaths of dreams. I find myself fighting to feel normal. I will my hair to grow back and my body to be fit. I think that somehow, if I can physically feel normal, my insides won’t hurt so bad.

But the truth is, darling, my insides hurt. I cry through the church services and the small groups. I come late and leave early. Coffee dates are filled more with broken stories than with laughter. I don’t feel at all like myself. And yet, somehow I feel more like myself than ever.

Through the wrestling, the crying, the yelling, the pouring out of my heart, and the now tattered pages of Tiny Beautiful Things, I found a truth that struck to my core. I’ve been fighting it but every day it creeps in a little more.

I am, at this moment, a culmination of all the things I’ve experienced – what I’ve done, what has been done to me, what has happened around me. Who I am at my core is shaped by each of these things. It influences what I belive about myself, God, others, the world, life, death, light, and darkness. There is no getting around it. Experience shapes us.

Pain shapes us. There is no moving on.

We don’t move on. We don’t leave whatever happened to us in the past as if it doesn’t affect us. Of course it affects us. We cannot act like it doesn’t matter. It matters, or we would not hurt. There’s a difference between holding grudges and being scarred.

There is no pretending. There is no unloving someone, unfeeling hurt, unlosing something or somone of immeasurable worth. There is only finding your place in your new world that includes new pain, new loss,new scar, and most importantly: new growth.

There’s a deep honesty that comes with learning to accept our stories as reality and realizing that trials, pain, and loss have changed us. And there’s a treasure to be found in the place where we look at ourselves, battle scars and all, and see the warrior fighting within us – the warrior who continues to press on.

I believe the best thing I can do in life is find who I am now, and learn how I am going to live a full life not inspite of my hurts, but with my hurts. Many of those hurts came with invaluable lessons. This is me. This is what I have to work with. It is my choice to keep fighting her off or make her as beautiful as I can, right here, right now. I want to keep learning to find that person and love her to bits. I want to be kind to her, gentle in the pain, joyful in the triumph.

If I could tell you one thing right now it would be this: Find your “You”, culmination and all, and love them well. You’re worth it. Your insides are worth it. Your story is worth it.

I recently started a writer’s workshop taught by Allison Fallon. It’s been a dream of mine to do something like this for a long time. And while it seems like a strange time in my life to be starting something like this, it’s been really inspiring so far. This week we filled out quadrants of a square with various words, phrases, and memories from our childhood. We took those words and phrases and plugged them directly into a poem. I was amazed at the beauty that came from this. This is where I’m from. Enjoy.

I am from a brick house,

from pine cones and stones

I am from trees, flowers,

freshly cut grass

I am from mud and football,

from laughter and wind.

I am from fresh air, fields,

corn husks, and sticks

I am from a creek,

from warm summer evenings

I am from sunshine

I am from siblings

I am from I love you

from do your best

I am from Jesus made you

from let me talk to you

I am from let me pray with you

from tell me about your day

I am from sit on my lap

from Jesus is the son of God

I am from Christmas,

from candles and carols

I am from poinsettias blooming,

from sledding and gift giving

I am from carols, lights,

and reading bible stories

I am from red and green tinsel,

snowmen building and pine needles

I am from pumpkin pie,

from games and puzzles

I am from stars and angels

I am from family

My youngest son walked at 10 months. So many times it seemed like his feet got ahead of his brain. He didn’t have a steady concept of height, heat, or danger. Out of my two boys, he landed in the ER about twice as often. Pain is how he learned many of his lessons.

I had coffee with a new friend today. The conversation turned to God’s protection. I mentioned how I’ve experienced an increasing amount of pain in my life throughout the last year on many, many levels. I felt like God abandoned me, that he didn’t see my struggle, that he didn’t try to protect me from the pain.

Today, my friend offered wisdom that struck deep:

“What if God’s way of protecting you was allowing you to experience the pain?”

I stared at my mocha, taking in this new concept.

I could have scooped my son up every time he darted towards the stairs. I could have kept him on the same floor his whole life. I could have carried him every time we went up or down. But he wanted to climb. And often, when he climbed, he fell.

Ultimately, falling is what taught him to climb and to gain strength.

Sometimes God’s way of getting us to move on from stagnant, harmful, or destructive places or patterns is to allow us to experience pain. Pain is almost always the thing that convinces us to change what we are doing. If what we are doing feels good and comfortable, we’ll probably stay there.

There is something about pain that protects, corrects, and redirects.

Pain is what reminds me that something still isn’t right. Pain reminds me that something still needs to be resolved. Pain reminds me that I need to keep making progress.

I mentioned in my last post that I’m mad that I can’t have a prettier story. I’m still mad about that – sort of. I’m coming to grips with it. I am frustrated by the process and by the pain, but I’m trying to learn what the pain is teaching me. I am learning to be kind to myself in the process, to give myself days that I can grieve and think and not feel bad that there are dirty dishes and piles of laundry.

I’m learning not to hate the pain.

I’m banking on the fact that God still loves me and that He sees me. And I’m begging him to keep transforming the pain into a story that is worth telling. I still believe in redemption. I believe that my pain has a purpose. I believe it won’t always be like this. I believe that there is solid ground to be found. And I believe that some day, when I’m done tumbling down the stairs, I’ll learn to climb again.

I told someone recently that the best way to describe my space in life right now is that I’m “in recovery”. And I finally say that without hanging my head. Recovery is a good thing. Recovery means things are healing.

But some days, I still hate the process. I hate that I need to recover. Admitting recovery is admitting that there is a brokenness that needs to be recovered.

I spend a lot of time playing events over and over in my head – past ones, future ones, sometimes even present ones. And I’ve found that one of the hardest things for me to do is accept what my story has become.

When I meet new people who I trust and I give them the three and a half version of my recent past life, there is this mixed response of shock and admiration of the things I’ve gone through and the demons I’ve conquered. And yet, even with their often supportive responses, I still cringe when I voice my story. I’m not perfect. Some things still haunt me, but I’m in recovery.

It’s hard to accept my story, even harder to love my story.

Maybe because it’s hard to accept and love my self and who I’ve become because of the storms. Some changes have been really good, really healthy. Others, not so much.

When you’ve gone through something hard, when something terrible has happened to you, when you’ve made some big mistakes, when God doesn’t pull through for you in the ways you want him to, when people let you down, when you let yourself down, whatever the circumstance, it takes time to adjust to a new normal. But I’m here to finally say: You are not what you’ve done or what’s been done to you.

I told my husband recently I wish I could just rewind time so that some things could be edited out of my story. I feel a lot of regret about the things that have become my story.

Sometimes I’m just mad. I’m mad at how the hurt and troubles have changed me. I’m mad that I can’t have a prettier story. But yesterday I had an unusual moment of gratitude for my story.

I don’t ever recall listening to a speaker and being completely inspired by all the things that worked out. Rather, I am continually inspired by the journey of struggle from darkness into light.

Instead of viewing my story as blackened and ugly, I want to learn to be grateful that I can speak even more assuredly of God’s grace and forgiveness. I want to learn to speak of the lessons that I’ve learned in forgiving myself and extending grace to myself when no one else did.

You see, there’s a powerful shift in our perspective when we start seeing our stories as something that can be used for good – not something we have to learn to hide.

I’m learning to speak my story more freely with less shame. God really can use anything for good. I’m developing more spaces where I can share it more effectively and opportunities to bring redemption to dark times. It’s been pretty amazing to me the number of people who have come out of hiding and shared their stories with me after I’ve shared mine with them.

There is a light that shines when you start opening the dark places. Your story is beautiful. You are beautiful. We’re all in this together.

A few weeks ago, celebrated my 26^th birthday. It was an unusually laid back day for my birthday. For the past ten years or so, I’ve done an excellent job at arranging my birthday so that I got to do many of my favorite things with my favorite people. I’d get a massage, make a hair appointment, go shopping, have a party, whatever I wanted to do that year. My husband graciously tried to make whatever I wanted happen. Sometimes it worked out, but often, somewhere along the way, the day ended up disappointing me. I wanted everything be perfect, just for one day. But life is rarely ever perfect, even for a moment.

I really thought that 25 would be my best year yet. I believed it. I counted on it. My birthday that year was disappointing and people let me down more than usual that day. I ended up crying half way through the day. I didn’t know it then, but that would be the beginning of one of the worst years of my life.

I fought for 25 to be a great year. I kept thinking “if I can just get through this (insert whatever current circumstance), I can still have a great year”. Well, I didn’t get through all those things, and it wasn’t a great year. That year chipped at me, pulled at me, knocked me down, and cut me open. It broke me again and again. I barely feel like the same person anymore.

Somewhere along the line, in the midst of various storms, I lost all expectation of life. I didn’t always assume the worst, but I stopped thinking that everything could be made great or that it would make sense one day. I stopped expecting things to work out. I missed out on some really really important things that year because of health issues, I watched my dreams fall apart, I battled demons I didn’t even know I had.

But yet, there is somehow something still a little beautiful in the falling apart.

I don’t expect big things in life right now. I don’t look forward to things because I don’t know if they’ll happen. Sometimes this feels like a sad place to be, but I’m finding some beauty tucked in the cracks.

I’ve learned to live in every moment. If here, right now, I am okay, with the ones I love, in a safe place, then that is a good moment. I don’t have the energy to worry about the next moments, because I don’t know if they’ll ever come. When nice things come my way, I am genuinely and happily surprised. I don’t feel like the most special person in the universe anymore. I always thought that somehow God would protect me from things that he didn’t protect me from. Or I thought things would just always work out somehow. Not everything has. At least not yet.

I’m learning to approach life in an open-handed sort of way.

I let what is happening happen. Every moment is it’s own space in time. I’m more present. I’m not always looking forward to the next break, the next phase, because I know now that those are not guaranteed, and they are definitely not guaranteed to be easier than whatever phase I’m currently in. So many times this last year I prayed for a way out and so often that way came with more pain. Nothing happened the way I pictured it happening – again and again.

I learned to start creating my own moments, not waiting or depending on other people.

Some of those I trusted the most let me down in the worst ways this year. It made me more independent. I learned to look for the small things that made me happy – buying my favorite drink while I wait in the ER, opening the curtains enough to see the sunset on another day of concussion recovery, looking at closed doors as opportunities to try new ones, or maybe even an opportunity to invest in myself more. I’ve spent a lot of time with just myself this year. I hated it at first. But now I love it.

I don’t believe I’ll always be in this place. I believe I’ll learn to hope and find my optimism again. But I think it’s important to keep learning from whatever phase you are in. I can’t find my hope right now, but I don’t want that to make me bitter and empty. This moment, right here, in the quiet of my morning with my blanket, coffee, and laptop, in this moment I am okay.

And really, this moment is all I have.

A good friend once told me “rock bottom is a lot further down than most people think it is.” I remember when getting a cold or having a close friend being mad at me were literally the worst things that could happen in life. And then this year hit.

Some day I hope to share with you the honest bare bones story of this last year. I hope eventually it is inspiring- both to myself and to others. I’m only now getting to the place where I’m not just really mad about it all. But today, I feel like being encouraged and encouraging, so I’ll share this:

A few weeks ago, I found myself alone in the ER. An hour and a half away, husband was packing up the last few things in our house because we were moving out the next day, to a new state halfway across the country. I was supposed to be there, it was our last night in it. But instead I was sitting in an ER, for a problem that was supposed to be resolved six months ago, completely alone, watching the hours tick by .

After a year of crushing disappointment and raging storms, I felt totally abandoned. I remember messaging this to a friend: “As I sit here completely alone in an ER, on the brink of this huge life change, here is where I finally give up hoping. I quit. I don’t care about anything anymore. I feel totally nothing.”

It’s an eerie feeling to not feel anything. I never thought I’d get there. But there, in the ER, that is where I finally fell apart. And I mean totally. I’d thought I’d hit rock bottom months before that. But then I hit again, and again, and then a couple more times after that.

I thought at the time that it was the worst place for me to be. But really, it was what saved me.

It was there that I lost all my preconceived ideas about God. I think sometimes you need to totally fall apart before you can really start seeing again.

Late that night, discouraged and exhausted, I called a friend to keep me awake on the way home from the ER. I told her:

“I don’t really believe that much about God anymore. What I mean is, I just don’t really have too many ideas about who he is anymore. People say God is a protector. I don’t feel protected. But I’m done letting that shake my faith. Now more than ever, I know God exists. Now more than ever, I’d have every reason to doubt that. I can’t explain it, but I can FEEL him. I want to mad at him but I’m not. Basically, all I know is this: That he loves me, and that he sees me.”

The next morning, people poured in to help us load the moving truck, I didn’t have nearly everything in boxes because I’d lost the entire last day sitting in the ER. I was stressed and panicked. I wanted to be all ready and put together so I could tell everyone exactly what to do and they’d all be impressed by how organized I was. It wasn’t like that at all.

Somewhere in the midst of the flurry, I got a text from another friend in a different state who had no idea about the conversations I’d had the night before. I’ll never forget the text that I opened. It still brings chills and tears to my eyes.

“You were the first thing on my mind when I woke up this morning. I asked God to give me something to tell you. All I got was this: Tell her that I love her, and that I see her.”

God loves you and he sees you. If that’s all you can believe right now, you are in good company.