It was easier before when I didn't feel.
 
Before my illness, I didn’t feel my emotions. They were neatly stuffed down, and I was numb… with the occasional explosion, of course. It took a liver disease, and being in bed staring at my ceiling for what felt like forever, to crack the thick layer of ice I had defensively coated my emotions with.
 
In the past I’ve traveled, and moved around the globe, and not felt a thing. I truly couldn’t relate when other people said they missed me – I thought, well that’s weird, I’m on an adventure! No breath. I felt nothing of this human “missing.”
 
This time is different.
 
As the plane lifts off from the mainland sweeping me back, once again, to my new little island home I realize for the first time that I’m homesick. I hate to admit that. Hate it. I “should” be above such a 13-year-old-at-summer-camp experience. Be that as it may, everything in me wants to dig claws in and prevent the take-off of this plane. Breathe. My life is clearly on this trajectory for a reason. And in this moment it is so that I can experience missing for the first time.
 
I have not written a single blog since I made this big move. My mind has created all sorts of good explanations about why that is, speaking at conferences, not having time, traveling, it wasn’t relevant, etc. Although all true, it’s important not to trust only our thoughts about what’s actually going on.
 
The truth in my body: I’m homesick. Ugh. My gut feels like an achy cavern. I don’t want to feel that. And I certainly don’t want to share it. Doesn’t that make me weak? Shouldn’t I feel more excited about exploring, and my choices to slow down and support my health?
 
Palm trees are great, but don’t make up for the gaze of your mother. The touch of your partner.
 
So, more accurately than home-sick, I would say that I am people-sick.
 
What is my imprint, my ripple, my impact. How does this get affected by distance and lack of contact? How do I remain in connection? What’s the opposite of out of sight, out of mind?
 
For the most part I am okay, but there are a few key people that I weep for in the distance. I am told, it is fine. It’s not a big deal. Don’t overthink it. A phone call is a phone call. On the other hand, I feel somehow it is heartbreaking how far I am away. And I try to tell myself it is fine, no big deal.
 
There is a battle going on: I want to protect myself from feeling the sadness by shutting it down, yet at the same time I want to feel it because I know it is human and healthy. And I also struggle, wanting to make other people feel more comfortable around me: they all do better when I  say I’m fine. Then they don’t hurt as much. Of course I know I’m not making them do anything. Yet in my self-judgment I tell myself that me feeling is mean – like I’m causing them to then feel the pain they can’t tolerate. And at the same time they’re trying to tell me they’re just fine too. We are all trying to save each other from the feeling of sadness, loneliness, and longing to be together.
 
On certain days, like today, the distance feels like a punch in the gut.
 
Oh, life is so short. To me the most important thing is connection. Relationship. Feeling our humanness. We regulate by gazing into the face of another. This is what we feel from our caregivers, and it is no different today as adults.
 
When we understand illness we understand disconnection. From our bodies, our families, our communities. We realize mortality is knocking at our door, the inevitable disconnection. We realize there is not time to waste in the precious life.
 
I ask myself, is it okay to sit in the discomfort of missing those I love? Of course the answer is yes. I am slowing down and supporting my health, which is why I came here in the first place. And I still feel the threads of connection to my people. Through the distance I feel aching and I also feel all of our strength and resilience.
 
Sometimes it’s harder to feel, but I think it is worth it in our quest to experience an integrated and rich life. To be with each other in a real, raw, honest, and human way, rather than run away. I don’t have the luxury of not feeling anymore. My illness blew that privilege out of the water. So, instead of being “just fine,” I commit to keep feeling. And today, that means missing. 

Sometimes life doesn’t make sense, and it feels like it's taking us for a ride.
 
Yesterday I hiked 2000 feet up Manitou Springs Incline to almost 9000 feet, and ran down. Twice. A personal triumph of my recovery.
 
Tomorrow I go in for a bone marrow biopsy.

 
How can things be so rapidly, intensely, good and bad; how can I possibly take it all in and not be thrown off the ride?
 
My life feels like a roller coaster of extremes. So many ups and downs it’s nauseating trying to make sense of.  How can our best days and worst days be so inextricably connected? How can we possibly feel so much? When our lives don’t make sense, and our capacity is stretched so far, it can be dizzying, crazy-making, and human.
 
To be honest, some days I want to just get off of the ride. I want to exit the roller coaster car to the right, and go get some funnel cake. Sticky, powdered-sugar fingers. Sweetness. Slow enjoyment of the moment. A deep breath, a sigh, the slow mundane every day… But wait: Times up, fasten seatbelt, lower the bar for a false sense of safety.
 
Feeling like I’m in control on the roller coaster is a false thing… yet I want it. I fantasize about it. For example, I think about things such as if life made sense then if a good thing happened to me, it’s because I’m a good person. And if I keep being “good,” then only good things will happen. Translation: Do good deeds in the world for myself and others, and, the voice in my head says, I’d have fewer biopsies, and spend more time eating funnel cake… but that doesn’t seem to be the case.
 
The ups and downs don't make sense, or add up. And in addition, I don’t see that roller coaster being replaced by spinning tea cups anytime soon. And, truthfully, I’m pretty glad about that. My life has been intense as far back as I can remember. I learn and grow from the tightly woven ups and downs. I can handle it, and I would never trade tea cups for coasters… so how do I ride the coaster, be in the intensity, breath in the confusing moments, and know when to raise my hands up and let go?
 
On this seemingly out of control free fall of the coaster, suspended upside down with this tiny little seatbelt digging into my hip bone, can I accept it and ride it through? Can I be aware I’m going for a ride, and remember that I have the skills, foundation, and support necessary to come through the other side?
 
Sometimes we can’t get off the roller coaster. We can’t slow down the momentum and intensity of life. But we can recognize and accept that we're in intense times,, breathe with this moment to reveal it for the rickety coaster it is, and fully feel the ups and the downs.   

We can't have highs without lows, and sometimes they happen almost at the same time. What's one high and one low of your past week? Take a breath, and remember the experience of both of those moments. Now bring them together and notice if they can be in relationship. For a moment, just feel, the joy and the ickiness. There's room for it all, and it's all part of the human experience. 

Today I want to celebrate. And the truth is, I’m too exhausted. Too tired to celebrate or feel satisfied. I have crawled across some make-believe finish line of the past month, which has left me tattered and torn, strewn on the ground reaching for a cup of water.
 
In the fantasy of my mind I thought I’d be standing on a podium of my own achievement, medal in hand, adoring crowd. Everyone aware of what I’ve accomplished and done. Oh, doesn’t that feel good? I can feel the perfect beam of sunlight landing on my face now, lighting me up, and I’m able to take it all in. (In this scenario I think my skin is even sparkling a bit, like one of those vampires, and also I have a dress made out of fire, like in Hunger Games.) So magnificent. My glory moment of surviving the last month. It’s what I deserve, to be seen.
 
But unfortunately, there’s no podium, no medal, no crowd. I feel like I just pulled back the curtain to see that the wizard is actually just human. I’m just human. And no one seems to notice. In the scenario of what feels like reality I’m standing on 5th avenue in NYC asking for food, and everyone passes me by without looking, cold, grey, uncaring.
 
Let me make this clear- this is not the glory moment I wanted. I’ve been trained for awards and applause, sparkles and fire. And instead it feels like I’m getting a broken wizard and grey blah.
 
In truth, today, my glory moment is unexpectedly quiet. I’m being offered time alone to celebrate, quietly, with myself. I’m the only one who really knows what I’ve survived this past month. And I’m the only one who can truly see it. Sigh.
 
2 times in the hospital
Medical bills that make my head spin
One job I work, to have health insurance, that kills my soul a little each time I go there
A doctors appointment with great news!
And foreshadowing of more challenging procedures to come
3 presentations at major conferences, one at a university
Talking about things I hold so dearly to my heart…
Illness, burnout, self-care…
Feeling like a hypocrite… well, actually, I’m human and learning just like everyone else
More hours spent with my person than I could’ve hoped possible
Quality time with family and friends
A brave decision to give myself more space and time by lowering a commitment
Feeling broken, filled back up, broken, full, broken, full…
The brilliance of a fleeting moment being in the present
 
And yet, it’s not enough, not enough…not enough.
 
I want more, more, more… I want someone to see me! Don't you? I want the crowd! I want people to really know what I’ve gone through, as if they were somehow me. Who really get it. To tell me they’re proud of me. Oh, I feel how I crave it.
 
But the truth is, it does not matter who sees me, if I can’t see myself. And also, that I’m the only one who will really know what it’s like to be me. If I can’t breathe, take in the joy and the pain of surviving another month in this body, in this lifetime, no one else is going to be able to make me feel that. I get to do this for myself. 
 
So I accept what is right before me. A day of personal silence and quiet, to tell myself that I’ve done so well. To sleep in, meditate, write… do some movement, eat my favorite foods. To tuck in with a cup of tea, and say, dear one, I’m so proud of you.
 
And as I do this, I realize all the people that have actually told me this over the past month. But I couldn’t hear it yet, because I hadn’t told myself. I needed to believe it first. If I didn’t believe in myself first, no one else is going to be able to say it in a way that I could believe it.
 
We need to see ourselves first before we can take the good stuff in from anyone else.

​And, don't worry, I totally get it, seeing ourselves for our accomplishments can be the hardest thing.
 
So today, would you be willing to try to say: hey self, good job! To see yourself, just about one little thing. I know you did something worth being seen for… getting out of bed, organizing a closet… Maybe it feels funny, or fake, but I’ll try it with you. We can tell ourselves together, okay? Because when we see ourselves, then we can let it in more from everyone else too.

To share or not to share, that is the question.
 
Recently I’ve tried a little experiment with myself and my life. It’s called: being authentic, being genuine, being vulnerable, being raw. I’m committed to doing this in my closest relationships, professionally with ethical boundaries, and publically in service of normalizing other people’s experiences.
 
I have spent a lot of my life feeling up on some pedestal of projection that looks a lot like: She has her shit together. She achieves. She is healthy. She’s got a one-up in the world.
 
Why would I possibly want to mess with that? Why would I want to say pssst actually I’ve got some serious stuff going on over here. Especially when it’s about things that are invisible, and probably no one else would know unless I tell them?
 
Because this projection of shiny brightness is only partially true. There is truth to it, and that’s the other part I’m committed to: not minimizing my strength, empowerment, and potential in the world. I definitely have the intention of giving the middle finger to the cultural paradigm that we can’t fully expand into our greatness.
 
So here’s the paradox: How do I own where I’m messy, and also own where I shine brightly? And why does all of it feel so vulnerable to talk about?
 
Just recently I’ve been opening up about my physical illness, among other personal things. That’s all fine and good until I leave my house, and encounter real people, especially ones who may have read what I’ve written. Suddenly I feel, well, naked. Seen. And I wonder, am I strong enough for this? This quest of sharing my truth for my own and other’s healing. Isn’t it easier to just keep my mouth/laptop shut?
 
Because now there are conversations. Now I’m in relationship, and people feel invited in… and they are. It doesn’t stop in sharing a little tidbit, that just opens the door. But this is how we breakdown the massive perceived wall of our own and other’s isolation. Of thinking we don’t impact or affect of others. Of thinking that we’re not constantly in relationship.
 
It’s right to take it seriously. I have impact. We all do. And with impact comes responsibility. To be truthful, honest, and delicate with what we share. But also to not be afraid, when and if we’re ready, to share it. Because it matters. The conversations matter. Being extraordinary, and messy, matters. We owe it to each other to try being vulnerable and seen.
 
As Brene Brown (I feel super pop-psych culture quoting her, but frankly she’s fabulous), in her book Daring Greatly, talks about, we don’t want to vomit our unprocessed crap all over people and call it vulnerability, because it’s not (I may have paraphrased that a bit).  
 
So in an effort not to slime you, I check in with myself that sharing seems like the next step in our relationship. Because I want to start a conversation about our nakedness. I want to invite you in, cuddle you close, share s’mores around a campfire, and tell ghost stories about our own personal ghosts. Because chances are, our ghosts are actually dancing together, and maybe they’re not so scary afterall. But we don’t know, unless we share.
 
So here’s the deal:
When you get to a point of knowing there is something that seems like it must be shared with a friend, lover, partner, community, here's a couple questions you can ask yourself, like I do:

• What will be the potential harm and benefit of me sharing this right now, both to me, and to who is listening (ie. What is the impact)?
• Do I feel comfortable with this person/people knowing this about me, and that I will be seen/naked in this way?
• Do I want to have a conversation and be more intimate in relationship around this topic?

What struggles/triumphs have you had sharing something vulnerable? Is it worth it? Comment below:

Yesterday I wept. That’s a poetic way of saying I was a messy, snotty, sobbing, ugly crier. I lost all of my skills… you know, those tools I’ve creatively, consciously, willingly and willfully, through blood, sweat, and tears, cultivated over the past 12 years in an effort to relearn how to interact with myself and the world in a more healthy way.

And then in less than 24 hours I watched the sedatives from the hospital and my physical pain let them slip through my hands like water that flowed, swirled, and gurgled while laughing at me, down the drain. Which, of course, is totally normal.
 
But, I am sad to say that I said things that were hurtful to the person caretaking me with the most compassion, heart, and beautiful selfless, detail imaginable.
 
I said: Stop worrying about me, I’m fine. You don’t think you can leave me alone because I’ll fall down the stairs and kill myself? I’m not a baby. You’re freaking out and it’s stressing me out. I can’t be stressed out because I’ll be sicker, and now it hurts more. Don’t’ you trust me, Do you think I'm an idiot. You think I have to call the hospital now? Why, because who said, some pharmacist? I’m fine. FINE. STOP FREAKING OUT …
 
…only I… can’t… breath… tears, snot, sob sob sob.
 
It took me a minute to realize that even though that’s what I said, what I actually meant was:
Note to self- STOP FREAKING OUT!!!
I'm scared.
I’m attacking you about being worried, because I’m the one that's worried. 
This isn’t fair.
It sucks.
I’m in pain.
What did I do to deserve this?
I want to go off by myself, and suffer, and come back when I’m “better”

• So that I can protect you from feeling pain
• So that I can protect you from being scared, looking at yourself, and having to see your own mortality
• So I can protect you from thinking that you may lose me one day
• So that I can protect you from me

I’m so sorry.
You don’t’ deserve this.
No parent, partner, friend, lover, community, deserves this, deserves dealing with me.
 
So, let’s face it, the only skill left to me after my emotional deconstruction was that of repair. Of saying I’m sorry. Of trying to take responsibility … to de-vomit what I had spewed-out in a dramatic rewind, and let you know that I’m aware that this is actually mine.
 
Chemicals and pain aren’t an excuse to hurt those we love. But it happens anyway. So maybe what’s left is trying to repair it with, hopefully, the willingness, compassion, and heart of the other party. Sometimes it’s such a relief to be human and messy and unskillful, and sometimes it is so hard to do that without a sense of entitlement. Like I can hurt you because I’m being authentic right now. Some kind of contempt of being so fabulously “vulnerable.” How do we give ourselves the permission and relief to be an unskillful mess, while also not intentionally bulldozing over the people we love the most... and when we do, have self-compassion and repair it? I don’t know that I have an answer to that yet... maybe it's something about acceptance that it will happen, love for ourselves when it does, and hope that we can have a conversation about it.. I know I’m doing my best with deep gratitude to the people that love me enough to say, ya, you fucked up, you hurt me, but I love you anyway. I’m still here and I still want this relationship.
 
So take a breath and give yourself some love right now, because we’re all trying our best to figure this out, together through fear, snot, pain, and relationship. 

Thoughts? Comment below:

I sit down to meditate. Instantly I see myself in a pile of debris, of World War II post air raid fallout piled around me, and a big piece of concrete on my diaphragm, pressing so I can’t breathe. I touch my diaphragm, my abdomen, with my hands. I hold her: I soothe and rock myself. I tell myself I’m okay.

This current acute insult on my organs is bringing up residual memories of 3 years of pain and fear. My mind knows there is no more physiological invasive attacks planned, but my body doesn’t. My body is locking up to protect itself, to protect from further tragedy… it’s smart. And also the tension is hurting me, its literally painful. I tell myself, I’m safe-enough, okay-enough, and thank you.

The tension eases up almost imperceivably. I can see it looking at me like a four-year-old child that tilts her head and isn’t quite sure whether to trust the adult or not. Is this a trick?

I can’t lie, it could be, I’ve tricked myself before. For years. Telling myself I was okay when I actually wasn’t. Until my body screamed so loudly I couldn’t lie any more. So she has a point, which is currently living as tension in my abdomen.

Right now myself doesn’t trust my Self. Wow, that’s hard to write, hard to admit… breathe, stare into space, necessary dissociation. Myself doesn’t trust my Self. How do we gain this trust back with ourselves and our bodies, when we have a past record of lying to ourselves? When our bodies had to turn the volume up so loud that it was a scream, for us to finally listen? 

And now with one tiny painful invasive procedure it’s like we’re back at square one, with my body saying fuck you… you didn’t listen for 30 years, why should I trust you now? She says, I tried to tell you. I gave you inability to sleep, nightmares as a child, tingles of anxiety on the skin of your arms and face, shortness of breath, pounding heart, colds, injuries, stomach problems, a hard time relating with others…

While you were going: perfectionism, control, business, awards, beauty, party, perfect, spotlight…

So I was like, okay: fear, pain, jaundice, shutdown, hospital…

And then you were like, big insight: oh, maybe something’s wrong. Maybe I need to change?

And now you have a measly 5-ish years of attempted good behavior.

So now I’m scared. I don’t trust you. If I don’t scream, you may not listen or realize we’re hurting. I’m doing this for both of us.

Alright. I get it. But you need to trust me. Please. I know so much more now, because of you. I am trying to tell the truth, and I’m willing to keep changing. This is just a setback. Let’s get a little bit cheesy and work together on this one. We need each other for the collective wisdom. Thank you for the protection, sounding the airraid siren, building a concrete barrier when you were scared. You saved our lives.

Okay, well, thank you for trying to listen even though sometimes you’re a shitty listener. But, seriously, thank you for understanding that I’m only trying to help, and I won’t freak out so much if I know you’re paying attention and we keep communicating. I want a relationship, I don’t want to have to just take over all the time.

Diaphragm releases, deep full breath, a moment of relief.

It’s amazing what happens in relationship, when we listen to the parts of ourselves that in that moment know better. When we figure out it’s safe-enough. When ourselves can trust Ourselves. 

What do you think? Comment below:

Let’s face it, unless we’re in complete remission/recovery forever and not in a relationship at all, we’re probably going to be going through some sort of set-back/relapse/diagnosis process at some point while also being in a relationship. 
 
And it’s hard. 
 
In my experience my illness/diagnosis bonded us, but also took a toll on my relationship,. When I was diagnosed I had periods of feeling closer in my relationship: like we were a team, like we were beating this together, like if we can make it through this, we can make it through anything. It was the experience of bonding through trauma. 
 
And then came the moments where I felt anger, resentment, shame:
No, I’m not healthy yet (will I ever be healthy?). Stop expecting me to be on a different timeline than I am. I don’t know how long it’s going to take to be normal.
No, I still don’t want to have sex. I don’t know if I ever will.
You know what, you don’t even get me anymore. This relationship is broken.
 
I’m a different person now then when we met.  
 
We all do the best that we can.  Maybe we grow closer together, and maybe we grow farther apart, and there’s also a  whole realm of combo deals out there as well.  There are as many scenarios as there are facets to relationship. 
 
Main point: when things happen to us personally the person we’re in a relationship with takes the most direct hit. Diagnosis in not fair to anyone in the relationship.
 
We want to protect each other from the pain we’re in, from the fear of our own and each other’s mortality, from the reality of the truth. So we stay quiet. As much as this is a noble cause we also miss out on support, and being seen in our pain.   
 
So if you want to be in a real-ationship, my encouragement is to keep communicating.  The harder it gets to be honest about the pain you’re in: be brave and share it.  It’s only going to be worse if you’re holding it in and not sharing, and both people feel isolated and unseen in the relationship.  Hard things, are, well, they’re hard to share. Sometimes impossible. But we have to take each other along on the journey if we want to stay together and grow. If we want a real-ationship. 
 
So what would happen if the things that you think you can’t share about your medical experience, you actually chose to share? 
 
And what would happen if at the same time you could trust your partner to let you know when they need a break from talking about it, and that you’ll come back to it, but you don’t take it personally?
 
This gives everyone an opportunity to be with each other in a crisis when we need each other the most, with enough space to deal with their own issues.  That’s part of one definition of compassion: having all the love in the world, but with a little bit of space. 
 
Everyone gets to be responsible for their own experience, and also be deeply loved. We get both autonomy and support. We get to rock each other to sleep.
 
But, here’s the trick: it’s a practice, and it can feel hard, scary, and vulnerable… but at the end of the day do you want to be in a real-ationship or not? 
 
If so, get brave, and get sharing.   

Does this seem true for you? Comment below:

Sometimes things seem too potent to try to share using narrative writing. At moments like these I watch myself turn towards my own bastardized form of poetry, to get to what’s vital. So here we go...
 
I wanted to share with you a little bit of what I learned from conversations in my relationships (with myself and others) this week:
 
​
Isn’t it sad how we come into the world in diapers and then go back to diapers. It’s pathetic.
No, it’s humbling.
 
What am I doing with my life?
I want to curl into a ball, in a cave, and never come out.
To give up. Because I’m overwhelmed.
But instead it’s time to create
These are growing pains.
 
They rock me like waves.
What lies beneath the waves?
What anchors me so I don’t float away from my potential?
 
You and your potential are fruit
The pain right now lies in how ripe you are, yet still on the stem
You will fall to the ground at some point regardless of ripeness, and be incorporated there.
So, how do you nurture yourself to feed your own fecund earth?
 
I know I need to nurture, I need to slow down… I’m overwhelmed, and I did it to myself again.
My business is how I cope.
I judge myself for not being able to internally motivate to change.
Right now it just feels like it needs to come from the outside.
But you don’t want it to come from your doctor.
(No, I want it to come from you.)
 
This is the hospital calling to schedule your next procedure.
 
Ego check.
Reality check.
Vulnerable. Scared. But of course I’ll be fine. I always am.
There’s my external motivation. It’s not the one I wanted. It never is.
But part of me is relieved. Now I have permission to come back to what matters.
Health. Relationship. Purpose.
 
And I’m reminded to:
Live your truth and share it,
You never know who you’re going to inspire.
 
 
Humbling growing pains
rock me like waves
The ripe fall.
 
Slow down.
Change is calling you.
 
Health. Relationship. Purpose. Inspiration. 

So dating.  As if dating weren’t a tough enough situation for most people, bringing up all kinds of internal “stuff,” now we throw illness into the picture.  Sometimes I imagine "Sex in the City" or "Friends," but give each character a chronic, life-altering, or terminal illness on top of it- can you picture it? (Oddly enough, they haven’t made that tv show yet!)

First date:

• Hi, nice to meet you, I have a chronic liver disease, what’s your name again? (Hmmm, I think that went well.)

 
How do I even approach the subject of my illness?  Awkward. That's one thing I assume, is that it’s going to be awkward..  The story in my head, based on zero facts, is that I’m going to tell this person about my illness and they’re going to:
     ·      Scream and run away
     ·      Start crying because they feel so bad
     ·      Spontaneously combust
Of course, all of these options are not dramatic at all, and seem totally possible. Particularly number 3.  Regardless, the conclusion of the story is that I’ll be left to pick up the pieces, and the check. 
 
What if I wait to tell them,? Ya, that could be a good idea. But that brings up the question: when do I wait until? I look fine on the outside, maybe they’ll never know.  Maybe I won’t have to tell them because it’ll just be a short term thing.  Maybe I can just pretend that I’m normal.  You know, go on a few dates, have great sex, everything ends before I have to say anything.  Oh wait, back to the present moment where we’re out having our first date dinner. I can’t drink because of my liver.  I know how this goes, I’m not going to have a drink (no matter how amazing this one date is it’s not worth a one way trip to the hospital so I can live out a fantasy that I’m normal for one dinner!). Which means that they’re going to say:

• You don’t want a drink, come-on, it’s on me, have a glass of wine. 
• I can’t, really.
• Huh. (I’m watching wheels spinning in their head coming to one of two conclusions. She's either:

      ·      In recovery. She’s an alcoholic.
      ·      Pregnant.  I’m on a date with a pregnant woman.)

• Ya. (and I’m thinking, here it comes, brace for impact, are they ask why I don't drink? Awkward. Awkward, awkward, so f-ing awkward!)

 
And with all this swirling in my head I’m definitely not present in the moment.  I forget the fact, and perspective, that lots of people have parts of themselves that they feel like they’re hiding.  That they’re wondering whether or not, or when, to share with someone new in their lives.  In fact I have lots of other things that I have like that too. 

We want to be authentic, but it’s so vulnerable.  
 
The facts in my experience are: I tell people, as soon as I can, and I notice what a challenge that is for me.  At the same time I pay attention to the person’s reaction.  It’s true, they may not be able to handle it, and then I’m so relieved to know that. Because I need to be seen for all of who I am, and this is a big part of me.  So they need to be able to tolerate the discomfort in their own system, and still want to get to know me, and hopefully grow with me. And that’s information I need to know at the beginning so that I can fully show up and not minimize myself or my experience.  Nothing is worth me dimming who I am and living with knowing that I’m only being a fraction of myself.
 
Also, in realty, most people I’ve told have surprised me by their reaction.  They’ve understood in the best way they know how, and they’ve usually related to an ex, a family member, or maybe even their own experience with their own illness (so my being vulnerable lets someone else be vulnerable too, and we realize how similar and human we actually are).  It’s been okay.  Big sigh of relief.
 
So, here’s the point: be brave. This is part of who we are, and part of how we get to do relationship. We get to be 100% real, true, us in our relationships: real-ationships. Claim it no matter how uncomfortable and awkward it may seem, and then gather some information about whether this is a genuine connection or not. Scary, but hopefully doable.  Trust me, it gets easier over time. 
 
We’re not broken, we’re human. And we deserve to be in relationship.
 
What do you think, does this feel true for you?  

Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day.
 
Today I think about how people struggle, and triumph.  How one person is able to be the voice for many who are disenfranchised.  And I feel the potential power that we all have to take our lived experience, share it, make a difference, and, literally, change everything. 
 
And then I instantly feel bad. I feel guilty.  I hear the little voice, well today, of all days, you should be grateful.  You should sit down and write a message about hope, just like every other blog I received in my email today.  So suck it up and get on the bandwagon of poetic encouragement!
 
When really, today, I’m feeling a bit down.  Yup, I’m actually feeling pretty sorry for myself. Oh geez, am I actually writing this right now? What the heck does this have to do with MLK, freedom, and dreams?
 
Freedom means gaining the privilege of more choice, and the opportunity of more responsibility. 
 
Having a dream means having the ability to look beneath what is on the surface, and see the possibility and magic of the underbelly. 
 
Here’s my ugly truth about freedom: today I’m choosing to admit that I’m having a rough day.  And about dreams: today I’m having a hard time seeing them, or when I do, that they could ever be achievable. 
 
I can feel my false-self (you know, the one that stands in front looking pretty, healthy, perfect, and in control on the outside all the time) freaking out right now… you can’t write that, remember, be an inspiration, be a posterchild for living successfully with illness. 
 
And I say… how about I be a posterchild for being genuine, messy, and human? Some days are hard.  Some days you find out someone you’ve known your whole life just died.  And that a family member who has been intensively struggling with cancer may need another invasive medical procedure.  You realize you have your appointment with your hematologist/oncologist in a couple of days (never not nerve-wrecking, never sure when another bomb might potentially drop regardless of how well you’ve been feeling). The relationship you are most invested in has potentially heartbreaking complications.  And you’re fatigued, really fatigued. So that when you come to the end of your day, and first have time to do the things you love and have been looking forward to do all day, you’re so tired that you can’t even comprehend it.  Freedom, dreams… maybe tomorrow. 
 
No, maybe freedom and dreams today, right now.  These ones.  Because maybe there is room for these not-so-pretty truths to be part of our freedom and dreams too.  Maybe freedom provides us a greater spectrum of choice in how we perceive our lives… both the challenging parts and the joy-filled parts.  Maybe it’s an inspiration to others to be who you are, and how you are, without editing.  Maybe it actually all counts.  And it’s all part of our human experience.  Maybe my dream is that each of us can speak our present moment truth, and be in a the company of others that can say, thank you for being you, for being real.  And when someone else is vulnerably taking a chance to share their real truth, we can tolerate it, and say, ya, I can see how sometimes things suck, instead of just jumping in and trying to make them feel better.  
 
So for me right now, my truth is to connect with those I love, and then curl up with an episode of Downtown Abbey.  Because today was difficult.  But as my dad responded to me earlier, you’re not dead yet.  Well, I suppose that’s true too.