Category Archives: life stories

What Love Means to Me

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I once thought love was about finding someone you couldn’t live without; that loving someone was the same as your need for air. Because this is what I learned about love, beginning with fairy tales and reiterated by rom-coms and just about everything else I absorbed as a young girl. Popular cultural has been teaching girls for ages that love is something that envelops you and sinks down into your every pore. And that without it, you’re nothing.

The reality of love is far different. But it took me a long time to come to the conclusion that love is really about finding someone you can live with, flaws and all.

I am not an expert on love. I have been an utter failure at it most of my life. I do know that my thoughts have changed, and even though love has been heart breaking at times, when it’s right, it’s a wonderful thing. I’ve only been in love three times. Here’s how I found my own meaning of love.

I was probably always a little boy crazy. Most of the time in elementary school I had a boyfriend, whatever that meant. Although I do recall kissing in kindergarten during nap time. In middle school, I bloomed and got noticed more by boys. I never had a problem with boys liking me. I just usually liked a different one! Pop culture allowed me to believe that someday I’d get the boy I wanted; after all Molly Ringwald did.

But I never really had real heartache until high school. My first serious boyfriend was much older and more experienced. And for some reason he liked me. I felt special. I thought he really cared for me, and he probably did. But I was naive; life had not hardened me yet. I still remember when he broke up with me at the movie theater. I cried for days. I didn’t understand why. Hadn’t I done everything right? Hadn’t I been the perfect girlfriend? It was a good learning experience about “love.” I didn’t really love that guy. I did trust him and cared for him deeply. It changed me. It made me realize that I should protect my heart more, and that’s about the last time anyone broke up with me. Many years later he apologized to me, and I really appreciated that.

The only guy I really loved from my adolescence was a guy I met when I was dating his friend. Then he and I realized we had feelings for each other. We didn’t date long. Instead we stayed friends. I went on to date others, but my heart was always his. What I remember most about him were the late night phone calls that lasted for hours when we were really honest about everything. A few years later when I was in college, I told him I loved him. He told me he loved me, too, but he couldn’t be with me. He didn’t think he was good enough. I didn’t know what to say so I put some distance between us. And in that distance, he met someone. Not long after, he told me he was going to have a baby and was getting married.  That summer was brutal. I still remember him telling me; nothing was ever the same. 

A few weeks later, I spent the last night in the house I grew up in with him. But he still got married and became a dad. He still called me all the time until one day I said stop. I didn’t want those calls to stop, but he had made his choice. I needed to get on with my life. I never stopped loving him or thinking there might be a time for us in the future. Then he died. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in years. I knew his life was kind of a mess. I only hope that he always knew that someone loved him.

I didn’t really fall in love again until my 30s. My early 20s were full of lots of non-commitment then I met my ex-husband. But as I clearly know now, I never really loved him, at least not romantically. I was not in any condition to love at that time, which is why I married a man I didn’t love.

This next love was after him, and it was a train wreck from the start. We were co-workers. I was still married when we met. We were just friends at first. After separating, he and I knew we couldn’t start something. It was too soon. But there was something very intense between us. And honestly, I had already fallen in love with him over the many months of long conversations at the office. I tried to move forward and not think of him. I started dating; met some guys I liked. It was him I wanted though, and we couldn’t stay away from each other. About a year later, we finally made a go at it. It was never easy. There was a lot of baggage. There was fighting and anger. I loved him fiercely. I stepped on my heart until it burst to stay with him. Slowly, I fell out of love with him and had to go so I could save myself. I’ll always care about him. I have forgiven him. He wasn’t my happy ending, no matter how bad I wanted him to be.

After that, I needed to just work on me. It took a long time to heal from that heartbreak. I was fine being alone. And when I was in a good place, something amazing happened, I fell in love for the last time. We were friends at first. I wasn’t sure where it would go, and that was okay. When you’re older and wary from what you’ve been through, you have a different expectation, which is that you don’t have any expectations!

He won me over with his easy way about him that’s just so relaxing to my soul. He is bright and kind. He is a good father and a wonderful partner. I never knew it could be so easy to be with someone. There’s no drama; our only fight is what to have for dinner (and that topic itself could be a blog – coming soon!).

What he has taught me about love is that it can be unconditional when it’s right. He lets me be me. I let him be him. Yes, we still have to work on our relationship, but we do that every day by talking to each other or not talking. Regardless, it’s honest and sincere. It’s a really nice way to live. I once had this checklist of what I thought love would be. It’s long in the trash! That’s not how the real world works. As I get closer to becoming his wife, I absolutely believe we will make it because he’s the one I can live with.

The Secret of Shame

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Shame is a terrible feeling, like the worst case of heartburn coupled with a swift quick in the gut. But what is shame really? And more importantly, why do we give it so much power?

Shame is defined as, “the painful feeling arising from the consciousness of something dishonorable or improper done by oneself.” Shame is a nutshell is about self-inflicted pain. Shame doesn’t just stick around in the immediate aftermath. We think we need to carry it around, hold onto it, keep it alive.

Is shame useful? Well, sure we’ve all done things we needed to feel shame over. However, most of us in the world don’t go around doing really horrible things. Yet we still want to keep our shame! That’s not okay. Shame is a secret self-hate that we polish with additional feelings of disgust and inferiority. Shame means we don’t deserve forgiveness or the right to move on.

Shame is something we are taught to feel as a child, as in “shame, shame I know your name.” In a way, it teaches us right from wrong. Then we grow up. As adults, we mess up a lot. But there’s shame to greet us and remind us we’re terrible human beings. We welcome it. We let it cloud our minds, making us completely irrational. Shame doesn’t allow us to let go of what happened. It sticks out its tentacles and lashes on. We’re stuck in shame.

I am not immune to shame. I’ve been my biggest disappointment many times. I’m sure I will be again. Shame doesn’t have a hold on me anymore.

I’ve felt episodes of shame many times in life; the biggest being due to the many bad decisions I’ve made in relationships. I’ve hurt people. I’ve hurt myself. Probably the biggest shame I allowed to invade my life was the shame of divorce. Nobody wants to say, “I’m divorced.” I didn’t grow up dreaming of my divorce, but I certainly knew what it was since I was so young when my parents divorced. Divorce is very common in our culture; some people do it a lot! I don’t think, though, that most people go into marriage thinking about divorce.

My shame about divorce was really about the fact that my ex-husband was not a bad guy. We had problems, but it was never ugly between us. He loved me very much and was good to me most of the time. I hurt him badly. There’s nothing I can do that will ever change that. I’m sure he has healed from it and moved on with his life, hopefully to find love. But the fact is I married someone I didn’t love, and three and half years later, I finally had the guts to say so.

So I became the bad guy. I was the bad guy. He didn’t really see me this way because that’s not the kind of person he was. But others did. So I let the shame roll over me. It was intoxicating. I deserved it all. I messed up both of our lives for a little bit. I never meant to hurt him or myself. Sometimes, we do the best we can.

In the immediacy of the break-up, it was not something I wanted to reveal to anyone. There have probably been many people I’ve known between then and now who didn’t know. And occasionally when I was honest about it, I would get interrogated as to why! Sure, it’s personal, not really something that comes out naturally. But I was a bit shocked that even the doctor’s office wanted to know. That’s right, on the form there was a checkbox for single, married or divorced. Why is this information their business? Does being divorced mean the doctor gives me a sad face? So I knew logically this was ridiculous, but I still checked single. That was shame winning. I was too ashamed to check the right box. Even though, I don’t believe this is information they should be privy; I still felt too ashamed to check the damn box.

So how can we shed shame? It starts with forgiveness. You can hope that you’ll be forgiven by others, but don’t count on it. Instead, forgive yourself. What’s done is done. You can’t change it. You can be accountable and remorseful. You can try to be a better person.

No one is perfect. We are a breed of imperfect creatures. Life is hard enough without the added deluge of shame. If you can shed that shame today, just think of how much more room you’ll have for joy and acceptance.

Thoughts on Charlotte, My City

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I’ve been struggling for days now to express my feelings about what has been going on in the world but more specifically in the city I live in, Charlotte. The eyes of the nation have been fixed on the Queen City since the officer involved shooting last week. The first few days seemed to be filled with anger and violence. And I saw the places I walk by on my way to work, places I’ve been many times and places that hold many memories being destroyed. I heard the helicopters and sounds of tear gas from my back porch. The reality of what I had been witnessing from afar for years had now landed literally in my backyard. I was shaken, confused and sad.

I wanted very much to write about what I was seeing and feeling. But I thought, who am I to have an opinion on this situation? I’m a white woman who grew up in an all white suburb and attended an all white elementary and high school. I’ve also never been arrested and had very few interactions with the police. I have never felt harassed or that my rights were violated in any police situation. So why should I have anything to say?

Although my experience with the police has been minimal and without incident, I do know what it’s like to lose a family member with police involved. 

Almost 20 years ago my brother was killed while being chased by police. He was on a motorcycle without a tag. The police attempted to pull him over, but he ran. He wrecked a few minutes later. His rib broke and punctured his heart. He died instantly. I could have spent the last 20 years blaming that police officer. I could have held onto a lot of anger and blame. Instead, I realize that my brother made a critical mistake; one that cost him his life. I certainly wish the officer hadn’t given chase, but that’s not what happened. I can’t change it. 

I also have something to say because I’m a writer, and this is how I make sense of the world. Finally, I think my voice has some place in this conversation because I live my life embracing differences. Your skin color or religion or gender will never be the reason I can’t tolerate you. I say tolerate because I’m not going to say hate or dislike because those aren’t feelings I feel toward really anyone. I will find you intolerable based on your actions and words. I care if you are honest, kind, accepting and empathetic. I care if you do what you say you’re going to do. I care if you base your words on facts rather than hearsay or opinion.

This is what I know. A man lost his life last week. The police seem resolute on their version; the family seems to be also resolute on their version. I have seen the evidence provided to the public. I am not a criminal justice expert nor an attorney so I don’t believe I’m qualified to make any judgments on what occurred in that parking lot. But I will say two things about the police (and these are my beliefs): 1. People of color are targeted more by the police than their white counterparts. There is a bias. 2. Most officers seem to be focused on doing what’s right and protecting their community.

I can make some assessments of the aftermath. Our constitution allows for the citizens of this country to protest and speak freely. We are very lucky to have this ability. In case you have forgotten, this freedom is not a given around the world. Peaceful protests can be a powerful way to spur change. Martin Luther King, someone I greatly admire, was a remarkable crusader for change through peaceful protest. He is the type of man we should aim to emulate when there is a time for protest.

Because I just don’t get how destroying the city and making it unsafe for people to come to work or go out to eat helps anyone. This city has now lost critical dollars. And I don’t mean the city lost money, which they did. I mean the business owners who had to close lost money. The individuals who work for them lost money. These aren’t the big bad corporations. The people losing are real people with real bills to pay. Yes, the city has lost as well. The costs have probably been millions of dollars to bring in the National Guard and other resources. I’ve heard protestors say they want this to happen – they want the city to suffer – why?  I can’t understand this reasoning. Our city has already lost so much because of HB2, a law that has made me ashamed to say I live here (and if you think it’s about bathrooms, you’re wrong.).

I also want to point out the role of the media and social media has played in escalating this incident. Think about this – who profits when something horrible and tragic occurs? The media. Their ratings go up and so do their advertising dollars. We all know this, but we need to be reminded. The media will spin the story in a way that most increases ratings. Most of the coverage in the first few days centered on the violence then there seemed to be a shift to calling for unity and peace. I don’t believe that everyone in the media thinks this way, but business is business. The other culprit is social media. How many live feeds or phones in the air were seen? Thousands probably.

And do people act differently when the camera is on? Yes, I think so. I think many people out on the streets were looking for a chance for their 15 minutes of fame. They wanted to capture something on video that would go viral. While social media seems to connect us in many ways, it has also elevated our self-importance. We think we are the star of our own show. In a way we are, but it’s not a show. This is real life.

Social media has also allowed people on both sides to play armchair detective and spout off their opinions (not facts) on the matter. Social media allows people to make statements with little consequence. You don’t have to be brave to make a comment or post a tweet. You do have to be brave to really want to see change.

To me, there’s fault and causation on both sides of the issue. The chasm between the two seems to be getting larger. But how about we stop blaming and making excuses? Listen, really listen. Don’t just listen to have your retort ready. Change really can start with one person. Be the kind of person that you can be proud of every day when you look in the mirror. That’s a start.

I didn’t know if I could find the right words. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe they will just fall on deaf ears. I do believe in the power of words. They’ve helped me along the way more than you could know. However, words go both ways. They can never be erased. You can’t take them back. Use your words in a constructive manner; more people will want to hear them and embrace them. They can ease pain, heal wounds and close the gaps between us. Just give them a chance.

One final thought: We are all human. We are all mortal. We are all imperfect. We all have pain. We all want to have joy. If we keep these things in mind, maybe we can start from a place of “us” rather than “them.”

Pop

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Pop and me at Tweetsie, circa 1982

We don’t all have the good fortune to have great role models. I had a lot of exceptional women around me, but there weren’t many examples of how a man should be. For the first 12 years of my life, I did have my Pop. Although he’s been gone for quite a while, I think of him often.

This is what I can tell you about my Pop. He was a doting husband, father and grandfather. He was always so sweet and sincere to my Granny. My grandparents had a real love story. I still have letters that he wrote my grandmother through the years from first dating to long married. When I think about a happy marriage, I think of them. They laughed a lot and were always very affectionate. I’m sure they didn’t agree on everything (she was a Democrat; he was a Republican), but I never heard either say an unkind word about the other.

My mom was a daddy’s girl. She was much closer to him than my grandmother. It wasn’t until after his death that my mom and grandmother became close. My mom loved sports and was very athletic, which meant she had more in common with my grandfather. My Pop even played minor league baseball when he was younger. After being wounded in WWII (he was shot in the hip and received a Purple Heart), he was never the same physically. He and my mom watched a lot of sports together and were always talking about the Yankees or the Redskins, depending on the season.

To become this eventual great man, my Pop had to go through a lot. He lost his parents and younger brother in an accident at a young age. Only he and his older brother survived. They were then raised by his grandmother. I don’t recall him ever talking about this to me. I’m not sure how old he was when this happened, but I’m sure it shaped him forever. It led him to be thankful and grateful for life. He always seemed to convey this with his smile and kind nature. I’m sure he never got over it. And that’s why I’m glad in a way that he passed when he did. He would have been devastated to watch my mom go through her illness. It literally broke my grandmother’s heart; I’m sure it would have done the same to him.

What I remember the most about my Pop was the time we spent together. He often picked me up from school and took me to dance class. He had this green Hornet that I can still picture. It was easy to spot! When I would visit, he always had time to play with me. We’d set up Monopoly or play banker. He would often tell me ghost stories, which fed my hungry imagination. As I got older and started writing, I’d read my stories to him.

He always smelled like aftershave and tobacco. After he passed, my grandmother held onto many of his clothes for a while. I’d sometimes go in the closet and smell them so I could somehow feel him around me.

My Pop was never really sick. He did have Parkinson’s. I remember his shakes and tremors. But I was never fearful. Eventually he had to stop driving, but he was never feeble. He passed one night in his sleep. It was my first death. I was 12. I didn’t really understand it all. Until I went to my grandparents house, and he wasn’t there. My Granny certainly brought a lot of life and joy into their home. But it was never the same after Pop passed. His kind eyes and sweet voice were such a big part of my experiences in that home.

My Pop was an amazing man. I wish I knew or remembered more about him. There’s no one to really ask anymore. I suppose what’s important is the feeling I have when I think of him: love, safe, peaceful.  He was the greatest man I knew. He shaped my life a lot in the 12 years I knew him, and I’m so very glad for that.

The Lonely Introvert

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I am an introvert. I’m not sure if I always was. Life and circumstances have a way of changing us. But as an adult, I have certainly always been an introvert. I don’t think that’s a negative think, it’s just the way I’m wired.

I wouldn’t say that I’m shy or socially awkward. I think being shy and being an introvert are different things. I’m never afraid to speak my mind or stand up for myself or others. I can behave extremely normally at social functions (whatever that means!). I just kind of feel really drained after.

A lot of people can be seriously draining to introverts. Or really large social settings where everyone looks like they are having the time of their lives. And I’m wondering when I can go home! Introverts, like me, tend to like smaller circles. I often joke that I don’t really like people; I prefer animals, which is sometimes very true. The people I do love, I love hard. They are easy to be around. I don’t have to worry about anything but just being me.

As an introvert, I’ve had to put myself out there and go outside my comfort zone. It’s been necessary for my job and my social life. I try hard to be a more charming version of myself, usually failing. I think it’s good to push yourself even if it goes against your natural inclination. As an introvert, I feel like I have to be “on” in some of these settings. But I don’t think I’m ever far from my genuine self, just maybe a bit more talkative.

I need a break after times like these. I need to cocoon a bit and recharge. I’ve always been fine by myself. I don’t mind going places and doing things by myself; never minded traveling alone. Through all my travels, I never had more than a few sentence conversation with anyone sitting beside me. I wouldn’t say I’m not friendly. I just tend to have my nose in a book. I’m rarely interested in what’s going on around me.

However, I do get lonely. That may seem contrary to everything I’ve just written thus far. I never feel lonely at home. I’m blessed to have an amazing connection with a great man. I just sometimes feel disconnected. Most of my favorite people are not close by. And because I work for a huge company with colleagues all over the globe, I don’t really see anyone all day. Most meetings are virtual and literally no one sits around me when I go into the office. It can be really isolating.

The truth is the older you get the harder it is to keep and make friends. We stay in touch with those closest by and who we have the most in common. I could do better. I don’t call my west coast friends near enough. I don’t make plans with the ones closer enough. Because you know, life gets in the way: responsibilities, projects and work. I want to be a better friend. I want the people I love to know it. I am grateful and thankful for them every day, and I know that even if it’s been a day or month or a year, we are always in each other’s hearts.

As I reflect on friendships, I can’t help but also think about the friends I have lost. Most because we fell out of touch or grew apart; others needed to be let go. Even if we haven’t talked in years, there are so many out there that are and were wonderful lights in my life. There is a sadness that comes with this when you think back to people who were such important parts of your life. Now they are just people you used to know. In times like these, I think mostly of two friends that I still miss and think about all the time. I met them at a critical time in my life. I was trying to start fresh and carve out a place for myself in a new city and new school. The weight of everything that had happened in my young 20 years wasn’t clear, not yet any way. I needed to have fun. I needed friends. I needed people to see me differently than others did who already knew my story.

For the next six years, those two girls were so much to me. I couldn’t have survived without them. I believe I was a good friend, too. I’m still not really sure what happened that caused our rift. I haven’t seen them now in over a decade. But I keep up with them. I have so much love for them and wish them joy and happiness. They’ll never read this. They’ll never know how much I think of them. I’ll probably never see them again. It’s sad but that’s life. It’s not fair but sometimes people are only in your life for a short time and hopefully for a good reason.

Loneliness is not my unique malady. I’m sure we all suffer episodes of it. Loneliness isn’t about being alone. I’ve felt lonely in a room of people. It’s not about not wanting time alone. That I don’t mind and recommend. Loneliness is about the absence of the faces and voices you love. It’s about not being able to say everything or nothing at all to the people you want by your side. Loneliness is the feeling of wanting to be connected to more than just your own thoughts and feelings. It’s a powerful emotion, one often hard to detect and even harder to remedy.

What’s even more interesting is that we enter and leave this world alone. Humans are not solitary creatures by nature. Yet loneliness may be an evolved emotion as our brains and social structures have matured. So should we be lonely? I don’t know. I just know that I am sometimes. My ask to you is that if you are lonely or missing someone you love, reach out to them. But don’t mistake any company for a cure to loneliness. Sometimes we are better off on our own. It’s knowing the difference that’s so hard.

22 Things You Didn’t Know About Me

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As a professional introvert, it takes time to get to know me. However, if you read my blog then you’re on the express path since I’m more apt to share my stories here than at a party or social outing. Lucky for you I’ve got lots more to share! I was just thinking the other day about random things that are important to me and what makes up someone’s character. So here’s a quick list of some possibly insightful, possibly funny tidbits. You’ll leave with something, maybe even some giggles.

1.      I’ve been to the Olympics. I was in Sydney during the 2000 games. I went to the women’s soccer gold medal match; the U.S. lost. I also met a German man who had just won a silver medal in weightlifting. He let us all try it on.

2.      I am not scared of spiders. I will often transplant them back outside if possible. They are good to have around, mainly because they eat mosquitoes.

3.      I take care of my skin. I’ve been getting facials and treatments for about 15 years. More importantly, I stay out of the sun; after all, I am transparent. I always wear sunscreen and haven’t had a burn in over a decade. Please take care of your skin; not just for vanity. It’s the largest and often most abused organ.

4.      I rarely wear lipstick. People ask me a lot about what kind of lip product I use. It’s chapstick. I am no makeup expert so I usually don’t wear lipstick or lip gloss unless I have a professional doing it.

5.      I will never hate or look down on someone because they are different than me; rather that be because of race, gender, religion, sexuality, education or socio-economic differences. I choose to live my life embracing the differences of everyone and believing everyone is human and deserves to be treated as such.

6.      My mom had lots of nicknames for me. She called me Buffy mostly, which many of my friends who I’ve known my whole life still call me. She also used to call me Trixie. I’ve never really had a nickname as an adult. It’s just Beth. But on that note, I have never gone by Elizabeth. If someone called me that, I usually don’t respond because I don’t think they are talking to me.

7.      I do judge people by their movie choices. Don’t tell me a movie from 20 years ago is a classic. I will stop talking to you forever.

8.      If I could have lunch with three people, I’d choose my mom, Sara Bareilles and Jennifer Weiner.

9.      I have horrible motion sickness. I’ve gotten sick on every type of transpiration available: car, plane, boat and train.

10. My favorite place is Paris. If I had the option, I’d live there.

11. I love learning. I’d be a professional student if that were possible. I’d love to go to law school and get a Ph.D. in marketing.

12. The first real concert I went to (because I refuse to count NKOTB) was Pink Floyd. Since then I’ve seen basically every group I love, including the Rolling Stones, Grateful Dead (before Jerry died), Fleetwood Mac (multiple times), Aerosmith, the Eagles (multiple times), The Killers, The Who, U2, Dave Matthews Band (about 30 times), Heart, Def Leopard, One Republic, O.A.R., Sara Bareilles (multiple times) and many more big and small artists. My only regret is not seeing Prince before he passed. Music has informed a lot of my life. I have always found it very healing and a catalyst for creativity. I am, however, not musically inclined myself. My brief foray into piano lasted not very long. But almost every guy I’ve ever dated or been in a relationship with has been a musician or had musical talents.

13. My belly button is crooked. It wasn’t always but after three surgeries it’s kind of lopsided. It use to bother me; not so much anymore.

14. I use to love scary movies. Now, not so much. I like the idea of them and watching the trailer. But now I’m a big wuss. I still have nightmares about the scariest movie I ever saw, which will remain nameless so I don’t start thinking about it (too late, I’m SCARED!).

15. I am not a good bike rider. It’s been a while. I’m not so sure it’s like “getting back on a bike” easy. I should really address this. I’m missing out. It’s totally embarrassing.

16. I’ve never broken a bone, which is amazing, because I fall a lot. I wouldn’t say I’m a klutz. I have just taken many tumbles in my day, so many which often included stairs. These bones must be like Wolverine grade.

17. My most prized possessions are:

·         Postcards my mom sent me when she was in Europe

·         The Pink Lady figurine that was my Granny Helen’s

·         Some amazing shoes I bought in Paris

·         A pink painted plate that was my Granny Faye’s

·         A bracelet Justin gave me

18.  I am a Pisces. I am no Astrology expert nor do I read my horoscope. I will say that almost every other Pisces I’ve ever met, I’ve gotten along with wonderfully. We immediately hit it off and had lots in common before finding out of our shared sign.

19. This makes the most upset: People who don’t spay and neuter their animals. Or those that chain dogs up and call that a life. Also, please adopt don’t shop.

20. My favorite sounds in the world are the sweet moan that Honey makes just for me and Justin’s voice – it’s so calming.

21. My first crush was J.R. Ewing (Larry Hagman). I cried for an hour when he died. Dallas was my favorite TV show ever. I remember watching it with my mom. I was probably too young, but I’m glad she let me watch it. I’m going to the real Southfork this fall when we go to Dallas.

22.  I’ve kept every journal I’ve ever had since I was very young. There’s some interesting stuff in there. I’d tell my younger self to lighten up a bit, and enjoy the moment.

My Mom Wasn’t Perfect

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Mom & Me, 1984

My mom wasn’t perfect. She was an amazing person, teacher, daughter, friend and mother. She was also human and flawed. She didn’t always make the best decisions. She made mistakes. Of course, I didn’t always see things this way. It took time to realize this and accept it. I put my mom on a pedestal for many years. She was and always will be my hero.

I think it took me longer to realize her imperfections because I never really got to have an adult relationship with my mom. We were never really equal. I come from old school parenting. My mom said to me on more than one occasion, “I’m not your friend. I’m your mother.”

Because I didn’t get the chance to become my mom’s friend, I always saw her through rose-colored glasses. I didn’t want to take off those glasses. I wanted to remember only the good things, but in the end that hurt me, something my mom wouldn’t have wanted.

I never wanted to blame her for anything that happened when I was growing up – it was easier to blame myself. I did not want to take her off that pedestal. How could she not be perfect after her courageous battle against cancer? She was so brave, never feeling sorry for herself, never letting me see how scared she was. Very few people handle anything the way my mom handled cancer – with class and dignity.

It wasn’t until over a decade after her death and years of therapy that I began to see her as regular person capable of messing her kids up like every other parent. She would have never wanted me to see her as perfect; that’s now how she saw herself.

Listen, our parents fuck us all up in one way or another, even the great ones. We all know this is true. Parents are imperfect creatures trying hard to either be like their own parents or the opposite, depending on how they were raised. Guess what parents, whether you admit it or not, you’re going to mess up your kids so just own it.

Parenting today versus when I was a kid is drastically different. My best friend asked me if I thought she was a good mom. I said, “Of course you are. You are present. You play and entertain him. Did your mom play with you?” She shook her head no.

My mom didn’t really play with me either. She played games and cards with me. She gave me plenty of attention and filled my life with activities. But she didn’t get in the floor and play with me. She bought me lots of Barbies and books so I could entertain myself. That’s just how it was. I doubt her mother ever played with her either.

I’m not bitter about any of that. I never felt lonely as a child. I never was starved for attention from her. She was absolutely always there when it mattered. But there were boundaries. She did not coddle me or say I was always right. She was honest with me. She never treated me like a kid. I don’t really remember acting like one very much either. In a way, it felt empowering because I had responsibility and could make my own decisions. In other ways, it created big worries for a little girl. I worried about my mom a lot growing up. I remember worrying about her after my dad left. She was probably sadder about the situation rather than about him. I was really young when they divorced. I have no memories of them together. And to this day, it’s hard for me to picture them as a couple.

My worries for my mom never left and only got worse. It was hard for me to ever mention my stepmother in front of my mom. If I said anything nice, she would cry. I know she didn’t mean to be emotional. And she probably didn’t understand what it did to my little mind and heart. My loyalty was to my mom, which made be less than nice to my stepmother. This in turn caused even more of a rift between my father and me. Even though my father made a lot of bad mistakes and hurt a lot of people, my mom wasn’t helping the situation. It’s really hard to write about what it felt like to be a kid in this situation. Lots of kids have divorced parents. Some handle it better than others. My parents, due to the nastiness of what occurred between them, were in no way co-parenting. My mom was the parent. My father was just somebody I saw now and then. I can’t recall that he ever did anything that would register as parental.

It would have been more ideal if my mom would not have elevated me to adult status so quickly. I was always mature for my age. Maybe I wasn’t ever really a kid. It felt really great that my mom told me things. But it informed my opinion on everything – some good, some bad. This trust made it easier for me to share everything with her. This was until around seventh grade when I hated everything and everybody. Lucky for me, my mom was a teacher at my school. This was the ultimate embarrassment. I didn’t actually have her as a teacher, but my friends did. I couldn’t do anything without her knowing. I had this boyfriend that she adored. She was so mad at me when I broke up with him. I think I did it purely because she liked him. And thus the start of my rebellion!

My rebellious behavior got worse. I was no sweet, innocent girl by any means. Yet it was always important to me that she not know. She let me do a lot and get away with a lot. She trusted me to make decisions then deal with the consequences. She let me date at 14 and spend much unsupervised time with my 18-year-old boyfriend.

Me being open about my life and feelings had ended. I never told her when I lost my virginity or when I cheated on a boyfriend. I just didn’t want her to be disappointed in me. I wanted her to always have this image of me that I was her perfect little girl. I didn’t want to burden her with my worries; she had plenty of her own.

Maybe I did start to see my mom as more human during this time. It’s hard to see your mom sick; especially my mom because she was always so active and athletic. She was six feet tall and could hold her own. Until she couldn’t. Chemo made her weak. She lost a lot of weight and most of her hair. She didn’t look like the same person. So at that point, I knew she wasn’t invincible anymore. That’s a hard thing to learn about your mom, especially at 16. I try hard not to remember her that way. It’s difficult to erase those images. They are somehow burnt into my brain as a reminder of how fragile we all really are.

I know my mom made mistakes every day as a parent. She failed to protect me. She pushed me too hard sometimes academically without really ever asking what I wanted. She let me get away with probably too much. But she loved me fiercely and without condition. I’ve made a lot of decisions based on what I think she would have wanted both during her life and after death.

I still think a lot about the impact she made on my life and what she would do. But I’m my own person now. I’m not her. We are different, very different in some ways. Yet there’s still a lot about me that is absolutely her. I love those parts. I love it when my best friend tells me I’m making a face like her or if I say something that she would have said.

In the end, I think she would be impressed with how I turned out, despite those mistakes. I had an imperfect mother. She was wonderful and beautiful. I’m so glad I had her for the time I did. If I had to do it over again, I absolutely would even though I know how it ends.

Tales from a Food Cult

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I wouldn’t exactly say I grew up in a food cult, but it was the south so it’s slightly accurate. In the South, feeding someone is how you show affection. Consider it cuisine currency. Many times it takes the place of having to say “I love you,” “I’m sorry” or any talk of “feelings.” We’re not repressed in the South necessarily, we’re just more likely to say, “Bless your heart” than anything else.

Not to say I wasn’t loved growing up. I certainly was by many people. Many of those people just happened to feed me a lot. Whether things were good or bad, we would eat. Both of my grandmothers were amazing cooks (my mom was an okay cook, but she really didn’t love it). My Granny Faye was the queen of southern comfort food and baking. She made lots of cakes – birthdays, weddings, celebrations. She made homemade butter cream icing, which she often let me lick from the bowl. Interestingly enough, I really hate butter cream icing now. I never visited her without her asking me what I wanted to eat. She was a serious food pusher. This all seemed very normal to me. My other grandmother, Granny Helen, made the best mashed potatoes, apple pie and sweet tea. I was raised on sweet tea, the kind that would give you instant diabetes it was so sweet.

So I ate some really great food growing up. I was very active then so weight wasn’t really an issue. Until around fourth grade; that’s when I started to look a little pudgy. And I had a bad perm and glasses – not a good year for me. It was during this time that I was first called fat, and I realized that being thin meant fitting in.

The cakes kept coming though. On one hand, I began to understand that cakes made me fat, and on the other hand, people I loved gave me cake. It was confusing. Was food good because it meant someone loved me or was it bad because it made me fat? I can say that my friends and classmates never teased me about my weight. But I did get a lot of it in dance class. Those girls were brutal. I lost my desire for dance after this and stopped taking classes.

By seventh grade, I had grown a few inches and was suddenly thin again. I was told I had shed my baby fat. Boys started to be more interested, and everyone complimented me on my appearance. No one was telling me I needed to lose weight anymore. I was accepted again, praised for being pretty and thin. But there was still cake. Food started to become more of a comfort. I had learned it meant love, but now I was using it as a way to not feel bad. I couldn’t love myself or possibly have the awareness that I have now so food was an answer. It was all a balance – food versus being thin.

The pressure to be thin, of course, only escalated in high school. There was so much going on in my life outside of normal teen angst that I felt like I didn’t have control of much. I could control food. So began a long journey of trying to get out of the food cult. I could eat food and feel comforted but not deal with repercussions of it by throwing it back up. I could not eat and see how long I could go, how far I could push myself. This went on for many years on and off, depending on stress, hurt and waist size. I’ve also been obsessed with exercise; there were periods I worked out twice a day. I’ve gone months on 1,000 calories a day. I haven’t really been a fad dieter just a desperate one.

Over the years, I’ve been thin, I’ve been chubby, I’ve had muscles and I’ve been fat. I don’t thinking I was ever really happy with the way I looked even when I was at my smallest. I still didn’t want to look at myself in the mirror. I still saw every imperfection. I don’t think I’m unique in this struggle. My feelings about my body aren’t just due to the experiences I had growing up. There’s also of course the beauty obsessed culture we live in. There have been some advances in thought about what is beautiful. There have been many courageous women who accept their bodies and are happy with the way that the look, even if it’s not the “ideal” that’s been set by magazines and Hollywood. Good for them. I’m not there yet.

Fortunately, even when I don’t feel good about the way I look, I have a man who doesn’t see my imperfections and tells me I’m beautiful every day. I love and trust this man, but I would never reveal my weight to him. I know he loves me regardless yet that doesn’t make me brave enough to be completely honest. I haven’t always been so lucky. It’s devastating when the one person who should be attracted to you suddenly isn’t.

Even though it’s wonderful to have acceptance from the one I love, I’m not sure if I’ll ever have it from myself. I wasn’t taught to accept myself as is – physically or otherwise. That’s not how Americans think. I grew up looking at Barbie, the most popular toy for girls and my personal favorite. She’s perfect, actually too perfect. I know they have new Barbies now that look more normal, but that wasn’t my childhood.

How can a woman sort out what’s important when she’s praised the most when she weighs the least? Food is, of course, necessary; it’s our fuel. I just wish I had understood from the beginning that food doesn’t mean love, and it doesn’t provide comfort. I’m still thankful for anyone who will cook for me because I don’t cook. But every bite of food I put in my mouth comes with this dialogue in my head.

I honestly want to eat healthy. And, for the most part, I like healthy foods. I am a bit picky, but I will at least try most things. But I also really love French fries and red velvet cake. Right now, we are in the midst of some serious dieting to prep for the wedding and honeymoon. We do have one cheat meal per a week. Otherwise, we’d go insane.

So I think it’s important to put any subject or challenge I have through a wider scope. The fact is people are still going hungry in this world. Yet obesity is rampant. It’s a strange dichotomy. Someone starves; someone overeats. Some suck their fat out at a cost of thousands of dollars while others scrounge in a dumpster. So in the end, people are dying to eat and dying to be thin.

This should make me have kinder eyes when I look in the mirror. I would think it’s a marvelous thing to look at yourself with love rather than disgust. This is a struggle happening every day in mirrors all over the world. We want to be happy with what we see instead of filled with doubt. All these years later, I guess I’m still in that food cult because when certain ideas become entangled, it’s hard to separate them. Food does not equal love. Being thin doesn’t mean you are a good person. But believing all this, however, is something really hard to do. I can only say that I will keep trying. And I will forever always want cake. 

City Girl

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I am a city girl. There’s no doubt about it. But I started life in a small town. And almost from birth, I knew I was in the wrong place, as evidenced by my role as the City Mouse in The Country Mouse & The City Mouse in kindergarten.

I grew up in the same town as my mom; even went to the same high school. She was happy there with her parents and friends close by. She did leave when she went to college but came back. I always knew I wanted out. I wanted to live in a city.

My mom took us to cities (well at least bigger cities than our small town) a lot growing up, regular shopping trips to Winston and Greensboro and occasionally Charlotte. I would often ask why we couldn’t move to a city. The city had stores and things to do! She thought it was funny, but I was serious. She’d remind me that my friends and grandparents were all here. But I knew I’d get the chance to leave when I went away to college.

Maybe I would have gone further and left the state had circumstances been different. I wanted to spread my wings but being close to my sick mom was more important. So I went to the school my mom wanted me to go to that was less than an hour away.

However, it was technically a city. Not huge but bigger than my small town. I’m glad I made that choice because for the last three months of my mom’s life that’s where she was hospitalized. I was able to visit her almost every day. I would not have had this time with her if I would have made a different choice. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices about what we do and where we live.

After that city came a bigger city then an even bigger city. I’ve now lived in Charlotte 12 years. And Charlotte is the real deal big city (17th largest in the US). It has grown amazingly in the last 12 years. I even recall from visiting here as a kid when no one went downtown (think pre-Panthers) and the major strip was Independence. But now downtown is uptown, and it’s where everyone wants to be.

I’ve lived in many different areas in these 12 years including a stint in the suburbs. And I hated everything about it. I’m not suburban. There’s not one shred of me that could cut it in a cul-de-sac (even if it was as exciting as Knots Landing – if you don’t know what Knots Landing is then ask Google – you’ll want to know!). But after marriage, it seemed like the path to take. White picket fence and all that ridiculousness.

So after my divorce I needed a fresh start so I moved downtown. I had never really lived in a downtown before. Even though I didn’t feel the tingle and energy like in NYC, it was still city life. And I thought this is for me. I could walk anywhere I needed to go. There was always something going on, and people everywhere. I loved the anonymity of it. Like I could disappear in the crowd. Maybe that’s why I’ve always craved the city. Because in a small town everybody knows your story. You can’t disappear. A trip to the grocery store could end up traumatic.

And I speak from experience. I do still visit that small town where I’m from because people I love are still there. But if they weren’t I don’t think I’d ever go back. Sometimes a place can have a hold on you, make you feel different. I don’t hate it like I did growing up. It’s just a place, a place where both good and bad things happened. It’s worth it for the amazing company.

We live just outside of downtown now, and I go to work there every day. Charlotte is still booming. And I can appreciate that it’s a good market. We stay here because this is where we have some roots, but it isn’t a place I love. My hope is that in the not too distant future, we can live in a city we love, preferably on the west coast.

In the end, I suppose where you live doesn’t matter as much as with whom. However, that doesn’t mean I’d go back to a small town or suburbia. Of course, I’m pretty sure we’d be ditch the city for a cottage on the beach in Jamaica. And anything is possible, even for a girl from a small town.

I Just Wanted a Choice

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We encounter choices all day every day. Some decisions are easy; others are hard. But we like choices (or at least the illusion of them). It makes us feel like we have control over our lives. Until something happens that leaves you choiceless. I’ve made lots of choices in my life; some good, others less than good. But there is a choice I never got to make: becoming a mom.

Look, I will be perfectly honest. I don’t  really know much about motherhood. I’ve certainly witnessed a lot of it. It’s hard work; not for the squeamish. But it comes with big rewards. Being a parent means you are responsible for this human being and that child must become your priority.

On the other side of motherhood, I can tell you that’s how my mom made me feel. I knew I was the most important thing to her. But we all know not everyone has that experience.

My mother and most of the mothers I know made a choice. The choice was to be a mom. Some got there easier than others. But it was a driving want in their lives.

I’m not sure I ever had that. I never heard any ticking from my biological clock, and I’m more likely to be maternal toward animals. And I’m not alone. I have many friends who have made the choice to not have children.

Because we do get a choice now. This probably wasn’t the case 50 years ago. You got married and had babies. That was the story. There weren’t many alternatives unless you were wealthy. And if you could not have children then you were damaged and unfit.

My road to my choice started as a child. I preferred Barbies to baby dolls. Barbies dressed up and went to work. Babies did nothing. I was not impressed.

Babies were not on my mind during my teenage years, but by chance somehow I ended up as a nanny in college. I spent a lot of time helping raise other people’s kids. I enjoyed it. Most of the kids I worked with were good kids. I tried to be fun, but I’ll admit I was strict. Good manners were expected. During the summers, I took them to museums, parks, the pool and on adventures. This was probably the first time in my life that I thought I want to do this for real some day.

Not long after graduating from college, I became serious with the man I would eventually marry. We talked about kids. He was less enthusiastic than me, but we were really young. We had plenty of time to figure it out.

Of course that’s not the way life works; things happen. I had less choices and time. Because at 23 I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. It was major. I lost an ovary, but the doctor said I was young. I’d be fine. It wouldn’t come back.

But it did. And I had another surgery. There was still a slim chance I could get pregnant. My oncologist was saying that he couldn’t guarantee me any more time. If I wanted a baby I had to make the choice now. I considered freezing my eggs. I even made an appointment.

I still felt unsure. And I knew that having a child would not fix me or my marriage. Even though I thought a lot about having a little girl sitting in front of me looking like me, my mom and grandmother, we never tried.

Then I became choiceless. Because shortly after turning 30, my cancer was back. And this time, the doctor had to take everything.

So there I was: 30 years old in menopause going through a divorce. The physical pain was bad, but no matter how old you are, knowing that you are barren changes you.

It informed my thoughts about myself and my choices. How could I date again? The scars were bad enough but what was underneath was worse: nothing.

So my choice was not to say I can’t have kids but to say I don’t want kids. It wasn’t a lie. That’s probably the decision I would have made. I just never got the chance to decide. That’s what kills me the most; having no choice. Don’t wish for something you can’t have kind of logic.

Infertility isn’t a first or second date subject. But then I began a relationship with a man who knew of my health because he was a friend. Even though he was over 10 years older than me, I began to think that maybe we’d get married and want to have a family. He didn’t have any children. I thought we could adopt. There were options. But that was a delusional fairytale. He and I were not meant to be. There was a lot of hurt probably none more than the day he said, “I want to have children with someone who can have children.”

To hear this from a man you love is soul crushing. I forgave him. But everything changed for me after that. I stopped believing in our happily ever after.

So I made a choice to be on my own. And why did I want a baby anyway? No sleep, stretch marks, baby brain. No thank you. I was free to make so many choices and do what I wanted.

Then I found real love. And I knew all the baggage I had about babies could be discarded. His kids were grown. He wasn’t interested in anymore. He knew my situation and had no qualms. He only cares about if I’m healthy.

I still occasionally think about what choice I would have made. I think I would have been a good mom. But motherhood isn’t for everyone. And it isn’t fair either. I’m at peace with knowing I’ll never be a mom. I’ve grieved it and accepted it. Sometimes I linger on it, wishing I could have the experiences my friends have as a mom or longing to have someone call me mommy. I’m not sure if that will ever go away, but I don’t live a life of regret. This was not the hand I was dealt. I’m meant to do other things. And my heart and empathy go out to every woman out there who has experienced any type of infertility.
Having your choices stripped away, regardless of the situation, is hard to move forward from. But I can’t be stuck in the past. I can’t change what happened. What I have the power to do is make great choices every day about how I live my life. And my choice is to share my story so that anyone who reads this might find some solace.