In the Leafy Treetops

Do you ever feel so overwhelmed by all the problems that you can't fix?

I do.

I saw an adoption posting for two beautiful young boys. My heart went out to them, and I wished I could give them a home.

My home is not large enough, and we aren't able to move.

I saw a fundraiser for a child who needs money for medical expenses to fight a terminal disease.

My bank account is not large enough, and it won't be for a while.

I saw a comment section that was full of hateful generalizations toward a group of people I love very much. I knew those statements were intentionally hurtful and untrue.

My courage was not large enough to say something that would only be attacked. I knew my voice would not change anything; I knew I would be drowned out.

The people without homes. The friendless without comfort. The children without love. The refugees without safety.

I sometimes feel like I am never able to give and solve and create and help when I often feel like that is what I was born for. Why does it always feel like my hands are tied?

When I was on study abroad for college in Germany, I was 20 years old. I'd lived a country life as a child with horses and land, and then a campus life. My days were filled with books, general college shenanigans, and working part-time mowing lawns and raking leaves.

I landed in Berlin, and I saw something else entirely. The city was incredible, and everything I experienced there was privilege. I went into the best museums, toured architecture, studied the language, strolled through the park, ate pastries, and shopped at H&M.

I also saw the same woman on my way to class. She had no shoes. Her feet were black from the dirt of the street. She didn't speak English or German. Her face was dirty and sunburned, and her dress was stained.

I thought maybe that her feet might be the same size as mine.

I knew I had an extra pair of sneakers in my bag back in my apartment.

I resolved that the next day, I would bring my extra pair of shoes and bring them to her. After two weeks of glancing at this woman daily, I finally thought about helping her.

She was gone the next day, and I never saw her again. I still regret how long it took me to see her, really see her, instead of just turning my head away.

I missed my chance because I was distracted. I still wish I had made myself see and care just one day earlier.

I did not sleep much last night. Instead, I was up cuddling my baby girl, because she was throwing up and feeling miserable. We were both exhausted. She was only calm as I was singing. Her favorite song is

"In the leafy treetops the birds say good morning.
They're first to see the sun, they must tell everyone,
In the leafy treetops, the birds say good morning.
In the pretty garden, the flowers are nodding.
How do you do, they say. How do you do today?
In the pretty garden, the flowers are nodding."

Over and over, I sang it.

She eventually calmed down and went to sleep. I stripped her bed and took her soiled clothes to the laundry basket. I scrubbed the vomit out of the carpet. I washed out the bathtub with disinfectant.

Yesterday, my heart was large enough. My body was just awake enough. My soul was willing enough. That was all that mattered to her.

A bird or a flower might not be able to cure the heartaches of everyone, but they can serve where they are. They can sing the song of the sun or nod at people as they pass by, brightening the world just a little bit at a time.

When you see the sun, will you tell those who can't see it? When you're feeling colorful and happy, can you cheer the path of someone who needs to be reminded?

In the leafy treetops, the birds say good morning.

Back On the Horse

I'm one of those people who pushes back against cliches. I like to do things differently, and I don't mind trying to come up with my own twist on things. I dislike things like "Live, Laugh, Love" and I don't really like most inspirational quotes that rely too much on generalizations with universal appeal.

Life is about learning to dance in the rain. Home sweet home. Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. Always get back on the horse. You know what I mean.

But, today I am going to break my own rule because I saw something on *gasp* social media that resonated with me.

'"I did not come this far only to come this far." Keep going. Keep trying. Keep trusting. Keep believing. Keep growing.' - Jeffery R. Holland.

Sometimes, we're all too tempted to take a break from our goals because we've hit a snag. I may or may not have eaten homemade donuts, yogurt, brownies, and a bowl of cheesy vegetable soup today instead of eating a green smoothie, a salad, lentils, and whole-grain bread. Yesterday might have been worse.

I sometimes think I've come far enough. I can rest now. I can stop and take a break. But when you're only halfway up a hill and you stop, it's so much harder to get your momentum back. Getting to the top seems harder than it maybe seemed a week ago. And, over time, you lose your progress and slide slowly but surely to the bottom of the hill again.

One of my mom's beautiful horses. 

Your goals might not be the same as mine, but they might seem just as out of reach as mine currently feel to me.

A retired doctor came to speak to a group of high school students. One student, during a question and answer panel, asked the doctor how long it had taken him to become a heart surgeon.

"14 years," he replied. Undergraduate, medical school, residencies, fellowships. Fourteen years to get where he was aiming for from the start.

"Oh," the student replied with disappointment, "I could never spend so much time getting there. That's too long."

"Why?" asked the doctor, "The years will pass no matter what. You will have the time."

Don't get discouraged when results are slow to come. Don't give up. Keep trying. I did not come this far only to come this far. I can do more.

Vegetable Soup

Self-care is important. At least, so say the mental health publications, the mommy bloggers, the parenting magazines, the college counselors, and others.

But what actually is self-care? Is it really eating the chocolate, taking the bubble bath, going to bed early, or getting a massage (#selfcare)?

No, self-care is more than that. One bubble bath won't really take away the toll of a week of stress. Your sleep will still suffer, your body will still hurt, and you'll end up struggling, in spite of all the self-care you've lavished on yourself.

It's time to change the definition.

Self-care is anything that consistently makes your life less hard. Self-care is the stuff you do now so that the day, or next week, or next month, or next year will be less difficult to live.

On a daily basis, my self-care looks like going to the gym and lifting heavy weights, so that carrying my laundry baskets up the stairs is easy. It might feel hard in the moment, but those moments are actually when I am caring the most about my self.

Self-care looks like choosing healthy foods for your body. It might mean passing on alcohol or soda and choosing water. It might be saying no to chocolate and warming up a bowl of peas instead.

Self-care might be paying down debt instead of going on vacation, so that maybe one day, your life won't be as financially stressful.

Self-care might mean taking time each day to pray and study so that when you really need it, your faith doesn't fail.

Self-care might mean being honest with a friend about how you are doing. It might mean asking for help. It might mean confessing that you aren't doing as well as you'd like to be doing; you don't have to put up a good show all the time. It might mean that you say no because your plate is full enough.

Today, my self-care looked different. It looked like staying bed until 8:30, several large cups of tea with honey, accepting that I am too sick to work out or do much work at all, and allowing myself to rest. It looked like vegetable soup.

Self-care doesn't have to be about self-gratification. In fact, they are more opposites than similarities. Self-gratification tells you to give up, or give in, or quit when things are hard, even when those things are worthwhile. But if you truly want to care for yourself, you'll embrace those things that will truly make your life better.

Keeping it Real

Today, I wanted to write a blog post about reality. It might be a boring, uninspirational post, but that's okay because, on the whole, my life is not dripping with color or achievement. It's steeped in the lukewarm mundanity that lingers in the background and often the foreground from waking to sleeping.

Today, I made banana bread. That sounds really homemaker-y and might be incredible to some, but the real reason there are two loaves of banana bread cooling on my counter is that I bought bananas, didn't eat the bananas, and then made banana bread so I didn't have to feel guilty about throwing them away.

Today, I went to the gym. We did an upper-body workout. I surprised myself by holding a 50-second plank with a hundred-pound sandbag on my back. That might sound really impressive, but I wanted to make it 60 seconds and I didn't quite get there.

Today, the weather is over 50 degrees. It's sunny and there's no wind. I thought about taking my kids to the park, but I was so tired from the week of workouts and reduced sleep quality that I laid in bed for two hours watching Hulu while the baby napped.

Today, I watched the children in childcare at the gym for an hour. There were toys everywhere, at least one person was crying the whole time, and at the end of the hour, I went home. I unbuckled the kids from their car seats. I helped a neighbor unload some sheetrock from his truck. I checked the mail.

And tomorrow, I will wake up and I will do the same things again. I'll bake something. I'll probably do a burpee or a pushup (or 50), I'll drive kids to school and pick them up again and do dishes and make some sort of dinner and budget the dollars and maybe buy some groceries.

And something in the back of my mind will tell me that this is unexceptional. That the things I do are not even ripples in the pond.

Some of you reading this might want at this point to say, "But you are exceptional! Look at all the amazing stuff you've done!"

But here's the thing: sometimes worthwhile stuff is unexceptional. Sometimes it's not impressive. Often, it's uncomfortable, awkward, ugly, unpleasant, or mind-numbingly dull. The answer to the question, "How was your weekend?" might mostly be a shrug, or a non-commital "Fine, and yours?" because my weekend consisted mostly of breaking up kids' arguments and checking the tracking data on a package that still hasn't come.

In a time when everything is made to be shown off (bodies, baking, clothes, kids, houses, etc.), take a moment to reflect on the things that are not worth showing off -- they might be your biggest accomplishments. My first 9 batches of failed macarons, the endless nights of no sleep holding a sick child, the daily green smoothie that I drink even though it actually tastes awful, the calluses on my hands from trying and still not succeeding at doing a pull-up.

Sometimes the biggest accomplishment of them all is not something you can post on Instagram. It's this fact: In the face of the mundane and uninteresting things that fit like millions of grains of sand among the few flashy pearls on the necklace of your life, you haven't quit. I might not have a glamorous life, but I have a real life.

Some perfectly mundane seaweed that nobody would normally take a picture of, but I did obviously.

Six Months

What can change in six months?

What can you achieve as the time moves past you so quickly, that you don't even seem to realize how it's already Saturday, how it's been a month, how it's almost Christmas?

As that time rolls by, you have good days, bad days, up days, down days, days of exhaustion, days of energy. But one by one, you begin to reap what you sow.




Too often, people get tired of sowing seeds. They are impatient and wish they could have a full harvest by the next day (or the next week or the next month). They think their seeds are not growing, so they give up, and stop planting anything at all.

And six months pass. In the end, there is still no harvest, because so few seeds were planted. All that is possible at that point is a wish for results, and maybe envy that someone else who kept on planting is finally starting to see fruit.

What can change in six months?

A field of wheat seeds can become loaves of bread.
A baby can go from immobility to crawling.
A person can fall in love with someone new.

You can change yourself.

Don't stop planting seeds. Every day, plant a new one. Go out into the field, even if you're tired or sad or stressed or busy, and just put one down in the ground. Each day will pass, until months have passed, and then you'll begin to see the harvest.

Thanks, Sisu Strength Academy. And thanks, Clark. I could not have done any planting at all without your support.

Born to Be Our Friend

 I want to preface this post with a few qualifying statements.

1.  I haven’t lived very long. Right now, I’m only 28 years old. I’ve had a few experiences in my growing up years. I’ve been married, gone to college, had kids. But I don’t have the wisdom of years.

2.  I haven’t experienced every doubt or every trial. This seems obvious at the outset, but I know it’s hard for people to hear things when someone has had an easy life. I haven’t lost a parent or a child. I don’t have a terminal disease, and none of my family members have serious health problems. I don’t live in poverty, and I have very supportive friends. But I still have experiences with hard things, and I still meet doubt on lonely roads that I feel like I am traveling all by myself. Those feelings, regardless of the trial and regardless of the doubt, might be universal to everybody.

3.  I still have a lot to learn. I often shelve ideas that I have, thinking that if I just wait to share them, they will probably get better with age. But that was probably just a lazy-girl excuse.

Now with those statements out of the way, I want to share an experience I had that is very special to me. I almost feel like the lesson is so simple that it should not have been so profound, nor should it have taken quite so long for me to learn it.

The lesson itself has a sad catalyst – found in the grief and heartbreak of a person who I love.

One day in early December I received a phone call. Before the phone rang, I was feeling proud of myself. The house was clean. I think I had even succeeded in mopping the floor. I was sitting on a stool at my kitchen counter, and my phone was by my hand, so I picked it up on the first ring.

My oldest sister, Brittany, was on the other end of the line. Her voice was breaking as she informed me that our sister’s baby son had stopped breathing during his nap and that he was being rushed to the hospital. There was no other news about his condition yet, but it was very serious.

My brain immediately reacted with disbelief, and that was quickly followed by a sort of odd hopefulness that things would be okay. Like, I literally believed the next phone call would be from my Dad or my sister saying it was all just a misunderstanding, that my nephew was fine, and that everything would go back to normal in a day or two.

Not the Sea of Tiberius, but still a sea. 

It didn’t quite work out that way. Ross, sweet perfect baby that he was, died in the hospital. While his heart had restarted, his brain had been too long without oxygen. He was two months old.

The immediate aftermath was one of coming together. Traveling. The funeral. Tears. Burial. More tears. Trying to create joy in a Christmas season that was overcome with grief.

The long-term aftermath was probably different for everyone.

For me, that experience started a big ball of doubt rolling down the mountain of my faith.

The answers that I learned before then seemed to be hollow, and I did not like them. People would say Ross was too perfect for this world. They might say things happen for a reason. They might even say that we would see him again, that families are forever. It was all I could do not to shout back, “So what? Who cares?”

I did not think those answers were enough compensation for the pain my sister felt for the loss of that perfect little baby. I was angry, and I was confused. I stayed that way for a long time. Around that same time, I started to become discouraged because I had many friends who were falling away from their faith, including people who have been dear companions and inspirations to me as a child. I saw their turmoil and their anger and I wished for God to show them answers. I wondered why he had to make it so hard for people to see. Why wouldn't he make it easier for them to know he was there? Why wouldn't he be there for them? Why wouldn’t he prevent my sister and her husband from the unbearable pain of losing their son?

These questions rolled in my head for months. They ate at me. I would withdraw and think about them all the time. And nothing really seemed like a good enough explanation.

Then one day I was running. I love to run, and this was a longer run – seven miles through a nature preserve close to my house. Instead of turning on my usual upbeat music, I turned on the music production of The Lamb of God, by Rob Gardener, which details the last days of Jesus' ministry here on the earth.

One of the most significant events of that holy week is when Lazarus, a dear friend of Jesus, becomes ill. His sisters send an urgent message asking for Jesus to come and bless Lazarus, clearly hoping that the Master can save their beloved brother.

Jesus does not get there in time, and by the time he does get there, Lazarus has been dead for four days. Hope is gone. And Martha says, "Lord, if thou hadst been here, if thou wouldst have heard us, my brother then would not have died."

Boom. It hit me. She had the same question I did. Why didn't you listen? Why didn't you come when I asked you? Why weren’t you here? You knew what I needed, so why didn't you give it to me?

He raises Lazarus from the dead.

But the understanding kind of kept coming. I kept running, but I might have also been crying at that point. Maybe. 

The final piece of the puzzle came with Peter.

Peter was with Jesus from the beginning. He’s seen the miracles, and he pledges his whole life to Christ just hours before Peter denies even knowing him: “I know not the man.”

He clearly loves his Master, but he is afraid or worried or weak. He doesn't understand the full import of what is happening. And then, just like Lazarus, Jesus appears to be gone. Hope is gone. All is darkness. Why didn’t he save himself? Peter wonders. He had the power. Why didn’t he fix this? Why would he leave us alone? 

They pick up the pieces slowly. They see Jesus risen from the tomb on Easter Sunday. But even then, it’s not the same. The ministry is over, so it’s time to get on with life.

So, Peter goes home and does what he knows how to do: he gathers his nets, sets out with some other apostles, and starts trying to catch some fish. He fishes all night in the sea of Tiberius, and he catches nothing. Peter knows how to catch fish, but for some reason, he is always coming up with an empty net.

Then, Jesus comes and stands on the shore. He comes and commands them to cast in again. They do so, and they don’t even know that it is Jesus.

They cannot pull up the net because of how many fish are in it.

This is now the single most important image in all of scripture for me. Because as soon as Peter pulls up that net, John knows. He knows it is Jesus: “It is the Lord.” Peter is so overcome with joy that he jumps into the water to swim to him. Everything is healed. The night is passed. The net is full. The day of denial is literally water under the bridge. 

I suddenly realized what faith is, and what joy can be. Faith is being willing to cast in your net again and again, even though it comes up empty. Martha and Mary cast in their net, asking for the Lord to come because Lazarus was sick. And it seemed like that net was empty because he died. Jesus did not get there in time. But still, they cast in again, "Even now, I know that if thou wilt ask of God, what thou asketh he'll give thee." Lazarus rose up from the tomb, and the net was fuller than they ever could have believed possible.

Ross was my first really empty net. That net will be full someday because of Jesus.

My questions and doubts are empty nets. I came home from my run that day and I said to my husband, "I'm willing to keep believing because I know that even if my belief seems empty now, God can make it full. I'm just going to keep trying, even though I don't have as much understanding as I would like to have.” True faith is being willing to cast your net. The fish will come, and some of those fish may even have silver in their mouths.

I realized how the power of Christ’s resurrection is more than just restoring physical bodies. It's restoring hope after hope has died. It's bringing back joy when it seems happiness could never be possible. It's resurrecting calm assurance in the place of crippling fear. It’s erasing anger and replacing it with mercy, with temperance.

This season, I'm just so grateful for that profound image. The net full of fish. In all our trials, he is born to be our friend. Merry Christmas.

Comfortable

I sometimes walk into the gym and look at the board. Most of the time, looking at the board makes me feel tired. I can tell just by looking at the planned workout that it's going to hurt. I can even tell sometimes that I won't be able to finish. Maybe I should just go home.

When you look at the tasks in front of you, can you tell right from the beginning that you won't succeed, and that even if you try, trying is going to hurt? Wouldn't you rather skip the pain altogether, stay home, stay comfortable, because you know you won't succeed anyway?

It's easy to make a choice between two actions when the outcome of your success is guaranteed. When you know you'll experience pain but it'll be worth it because you'll get to the top of the mountain and see the view, you push through it. When you know that doing nothing will give you nothing, you might decide to do something.

The hard choice comes when putting in all your effort will be uncomfortable, but you still won't quite be able to succeed on your own. You climb all day but the top of the mountain is beyond your capability to reach. Do you do it anyway?

People will sometimes ask me, why choose to believe in something so hard to believe in? Why follow a path that demands so much from you?

The answer is perfection. You can't get there by being comfortable. You get there by trying your hardest, knowing that you will fail, so you turn to Christ. You carry the load God asks you to carry, and when it is too heavy, you fall on your knees and he takes the burden. You ask for His perfection to bridge the gap between what you can do and what you can't do.

It's hard to choose to be uncomfortable. It's hard to commit to a life that demands constant change, constant improvement, constant reshaping of your will.

My experiences with lifting weights and getting stronger are similar to my experiences with my faith. I guess I don't want to be comfortable, because I won't ever quit. I'll keep choosing to take the road less traveled, to climb the mountain, to do the burpees, to love my enemy, to change my heart. Hopefully, by the grace of God, I'll see the view as He turns my weaknesses into strengths.

Mussels from our trip to Oregon. Because muscles, mussels... strength, you know. 

"And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them." Ether 12:27

Strength

There are all different kinds of strength.

For many, strength might be taking one step before sitting down. Strength might be walking a mile before resting. Strength might be lifting 300 pounds off the ground.

Telling the truth when you know it will hurt. Giving more of yourself when you're exhausted or sick or stretched thin. Creating something that others might tear down. Trying something you'll probably fail at.


What makes a person strong? Why does it matter?

I was inspired to write this post after watching this video. Once an expert diver, Cliff Devries now experiences partial paralysis because of a brain tumor. But he still finds the strength within himself to get the most he can out of life.



I have been struggling to feel motivated lately, and not just with going to the gym. Everything has been in a slump, and I don't know how to solve the problem. I feel like I'm constantly playing catch-up, but I can't motivate myself enough to get my literal and figurative house in order.

I sometimes feel like I've moved backward instead of forwards. I feel like I need more help than I have.

But the cool thing about this video is that this diver taps into deep mental and physical strength to enjoy just a few seconds of happiness. And people all around him help him to make sure he can experience that joy. Someone climbs up the board with him. Swimmers get in the water to guide him back.

I want to thank the people who've been on my team the past few weeks. The friends who jump-started my car (which seems to be eternally dying), the people who cheered me on during those last few seconds of a plank hold (thanks a lot, Jeff), the people who believed in me more than I believed in myself. All your kind words, patience, willingness to work with my weaknesses, and your ability to see through the exterior to comfort the person underneath mean that I can actually succeed at things that are beyond my own strength.

Strength comes from inside, but when it's not enough, strength comes from your team, and when you're weak and can't pick up the slack, even when you're determined to excel, you'll fail without them.

All that support is what brings those few seconds of triumph -- when you are suddenly able to carry the load on your own and experience the joy. All your work suddenly means something, but it means something because of the people who walked the board right alongside you.

To quote Cliff,

“When you see my dive, what else can you do? What can you find in yourself - what can you find in others? When you look in the mirror, what else is there? What else do you have? What more can you bring out? Which is a little bit beyond what you think right now.”

Anything I Can Do, I Can Do Better

So, cultured people know that old musicals are the height of true entertainment.

Today I was thinking about how far I've come in the last few months, and a scene from Annie Get Your Gun came to mind. The scene opens with Annie arguing with Frank about who is better with a gun, and they're both comparing their awards. They launch into song (of course), continually upping the competition. Here's a great rendition by Laura Osnes and Santino Fontana.

Humor aside, the reason I thought of this video was that lately (like almost every day), I'm able to do something I couldn't do before or I'm able to do something much better than I did before.

When starting Sisu:

• I could not do a single push up. Now I could maybe do five before having to go down to my knees.
• I had to use a blue and black band doubled up to do a pull-up. Now I can use the purple band to do one or two, before moving to the green. 
• I could only front squat with the light (35-pound bar). I haven't attempted a PR, but I have done 85 pounds on a few different occasions. 
• I could not do a box jump. I can now do a box jump. 

This is not an exhaustive list.

So, today when I was doing the floor press, I was struggling to complete my set, so I sang to myself "Anything I can do, I can do better. I can do anything better than me."

And then I ignore Frank who says, "No you can't," and I say louder, "Yes, I can."

And it's true for everyone who goes. Whenever I hear someone wonder out loud if they could lift a certain weight, or try another rep, or do an entire set heavier than before, I always think they can, and I tell them so.

Whenever these break-through moments happen for me, I just feel amazed. I'm surprised by myself, and I hope that feeling never goes away. I constantly want to believe that anything I can do, I can do better and then succeed.

Don't listen to Frank.

Integrity

I had an interesting experience during my workout today. I don't know whose idea it was to plan 5-minute planks as part of the conditioning routine, but when I came in and looked at the board, I knew that I would struggle to complete that part when the time came.

And I was right.

Within thirty seconds of holding the plank, I wanted to quit. I started to find things to take my mind off how much I hate planking, and then I thought I'd try and shave off some effort by maybe relaxing my form, resting a bit.

I needed that rest during those five minutes, but as I was trying to find the resolve to finish the round, the words of Job popped into my mind, "Til I die I will not remove mine integrity from me... I hold fast, and will not let it go."

I latched onto that statement and used it to get me through the last ninety seconds.

For those who don't know, Job is a guy from the Bible who got a pretty raw deal. He loses everything: his family, his friends, his health, his wealth. We're talking boils, death, famine, theft, poverty... you can name what this guy had to lose, and he lost it. After he's lost it all, people try to tell him to leave his convictions behind. "You deserve to get angry," they say, "What have you got to lose?" He refuses and stays true to what he believes.

That's integrity. It's being honest and real with yourself, sticking to your code even when it sucks, and never backing down, even when the fire is burning and the flood is rising.

I was tempted later in the workout to cut my run short (no one would know, I was sore, I was tired, I felt like I deserved to rest, I wanted to be done) but instantly, I remembered again those words, "Till I die, I will not remove mine integrity from me." No one would know -- except me. I'd know. I'd know I didn't live up to my potential, but I'd also know I didn't stick with my expectations for myself. A small thing, but as I mentioned last time, small things become big things.



Integrity. That means that when I say something is important to me, I act like it is important to me. All the time. Every time.

Obviously, I'm not perfect at always following through on the things that matter to me. But I can practice following through on a daily basis to the point that not following through would seem like a foreign concept to me. The idea of giving up or quitting or not bringing my best effort won't sneak in like it did today.

"I hold fast, and will not let it go."

Small Stuff

One of my personal weaknesses is complacency. I enjoy coasting too much, I often procrastinate, and I often choose not to care about things that should be important.

This weakness can sometimes be a strength. For example, I can be completely chill about my house being a mess because I actively choose not to be bothered. I relax and embrace the inner lazy, which can save me from my own anxieties.

But sometimes I can take the "don't sweat the small stuff" attitude too far. Sometimes, it's important to care. And sometimes it's even important to force yourself to care when you don't want to.
There comes a point when you have to choose between making yourself better or just keeping on keeping on.

Ten wasted minutes is a small thing. If I said to you, "I wasted ten minutes today," you'd shrug and say, "So what?"

If I waste ten minutes every day, that's sixty wasted hours in a year. Sixty hours. Enough time to make a quilt. Read three or four books. Volunteer for a weekend. Workout every day for two months. Bake 30 loaves of bread.

Suddenly, the small stuff turns into big stuff. How much small stuff am I going to shrug off before I realize that caring enough about it will actually make a big difference in my life?

How much do you lose when you do nine burpees instead of ten? One burpee is barely anything. You might not notice a difference by stopping at nine thinking, "Well, that was good enough."

Over time, the gap widens between those who do nine and those who do ten. One person remains good enough, and the other becomes excellent.

Life is rarely determined by one major choice. Instead, it's defined by the small choices you make for yourself every day. Start to see those choices in the scope of what they build. See the forest instead of just seeing the singular trees. Books are made of small words. Paintings are made with single brushstrokes. Castles are built with small bricks.

Eat the elephant. Care about the small stuff, because big stuff is made out of small stuff.

Skipping Out

I wake up to the sound of shuffling footsteps on the carpet at the foot of my bed. I look over at the clock. 5:23 AM. There's an internal sigh, a feeling of annoyance, and a feeling of dread, because the kids are up an hour earlier than normal, which means the day will be an hour longer.

I wish-- just for a minute-- I wish I could skip. Push fast forward. Erase the hours I have to live until I can go to sleep again.

I don't hate my life. I actually like it a lot. But sometimes, I don't like that I'm the one in charge of that life. I don't like being the person that always has to wash the dishes or drive the cars or supervise the piano playing or clean the toilet or wipe the nose or find the socks in the mountains of laundry I haven't folded yet.

I'm tired just thinking about everything that's my job to get done before the day starts, and it would be easier for everybody if we just didn't live that day at all. If we skipped it, the same mess would be there tomorrow, without any new mess thrown in.

When do you feel tempted to skip out?

Is it when you wake up sore because yesterday's workout was really tough? Your mind tells you that working hard today will be painful, and maybe you deserve to skip this one time.

Is it when you come home after a day at work, and instead of making the same boring healthy food, you want to just skip that mental burden and eat potatoes and ice-cream? (Potatoes are the best food in the world, by the way. Fight me.)

Is it when you're tired of getting to church on time, getting to school on time, getting to work on time, getting everybody there on time?

The desire to skip out is real. But whenever you skip out on something that's important to you, you end up losing something too. Sometimes, that opportunity cost is worth it. A day of rest is important for sanity and rejuvenation.

But most of the time, like in the morning when I want to skip the day, I have to make myself grow up again. I can't afford to skip. People are counting on me. So, I make the breakfast and I find the socks. I'd feel like the worst version of myself if I didn't show up for the people I care about.

The person who counts on you the most though is not your kids or your spouse or your friends. It's yourself. You count on you.

Because if you don't show up for your goals, you start losing hold of them. If you force yourself to grow up and show up for someone you love, take that resolve and grit, and use it for yourself too. Don't skip out, or the things you want and hope for will skip right on past you.

Envy

Each post, I add a picture that I took. For those who want to know.

Humans spend a lot of time wishing for things that others have, and I'm no different.

When I had three kids in car seats, I was annoyed that I had to work with my mid-size SUV instead of a bigger vehicle. I envied people who had better transportation.

Yep, I just admitted to minivan jealousy. Hello, adulthood.




The list of wanting things that others have includes things like:

• A kitchen pantry.
• A second bathroom. 
• Family vacations.
• Better workout clothes.
• ... this list could go on for a while...

The things we want vary based on who we are and what we value. But one thing that a lot of people have in common when it comes to envy is bodies.

Have you ever looked at a "fitspiration" post and wished you looked like that? That you had hair like that, abs like that, legs like that, or could wear clothes the same way?

It's easy to get lost in body envy, but there is nothing less constructive.

Envy over things you want but don't have never helps with positivity or gratitude, but body envy is one of the most dangerous types.

You could build a pantry, or move to a house that has one. You could save up for a cool family vacation. But you can't have someone else's body. Even if you work out the same as another person, eat the same food, or even get the same surgery -- your body will still be your body, and you'll never look like anybody but you.

So, make goals for yourself. Don't make a goal to look like someone else, or waste time wishing that your body was their body instead.

Start to see the good things about your own body, and accept the things that could be improved (and improve them, if you can). What are some of the great things your body is? What are some of the great things your body can do?

I have great hair. It is thick, it's a nice color. I have good skin. My teeth are straight. My eyes are green. I'm short, and that's not bad. I have good hands. They can play the piano, and bake things, and write stuff, and do the work I need to get done every day. I can sing, and I do almost every day as I drive my kids the places they need to be. I'm a good researcher. I have an excellent memory.

Spend time each day being grateful for being yourself, for having the body you have. You can only ever be you.

No Perfect Days

I know that not everyone is an idealist, but I am. I have a vision for everything.

Most everything I want for myself is touched by idealism. It's not necessarily optimism because I'm probably more inclined to be negative than to see the glass half full.

When I envision the home I want for myself and my family, I see a home that is not fancy or too big, but not too small or too run down. I see it nicely decorated with nothing too glaring or out of place, but somehow not cookie-cutter or predictable. There is no clutter and people like to come over.

When I make a quilt, I see the finished product from the beginning and I will spend hours (no joke) just staring at the pieces as I arrange them to make sure the final top will look like how I imagined it would.

When I plan a family vacation, I see myself forgetting nothing, dealing well with kids' inevitable misbehavior, feeling both fulfilled and nostalgic as we all make s'mores together as the sun is setting behind the hills, and the weather (of course) is not too hot or too cold.


Idealism is a wonderful tool for me, but it can also be one of my greatest vices.

Idealism is what leaves me constantly dissatisfied with my work. Idealism is what makes me surprised to actually succeed. Idealism is a source of depression and discouragement -- it brings "why try" syndrome on the coattails of a fabulous vision I might have for myself.

I see how I want to perform, I see what I wish I could do. When I go to try yet another power clean, I still can't get the movement right, even with all my concentration. When I decide to eat pizza with my kids instead of eating the way I see myself needing and wanting to eat, I feel like I can't match my own expectations.

When the quest for perfection is no longer a joy, it starts to steal joy away from you. It tells you that because you tried and failed again to complete a move perfectly, maybe you'll never be good at it. It tells you that just because you ate ice-cream (and got a stomach ache), that maybe you should just stop trying for the day (or week or month).

But the truth is this: There are no perfect days.

There are days when you wake up tired because your kids have been up in the night and you couldn't get back to sleep.

There are days where you skip breakfast because you're busy and then get so hungry you bail on your healthy plan for lunch.

There are days when you forget to pray even though you promised yourself you'd remember every day this week.

There are days when, no matter how hard you try, the buttercream just won't go on the cake the way you want it to (super annoying, by the way).

There are days when you're willing to wake up and work hard, but your knees are hurting (again), or your back is hurting (again), or your heart is hurting (again). So you can't work as hard as you want to.

Perfection is not an event, it is a journey, and it's not one we get to because one day goes exactly as planned. It's because as the days go by, we still keep making good choices in the face of less-than-perfect circumstances, even the circumstances we create ourselves.

So don't let your idealism take away what you've already done. Don't let it tell you that all your effort was worthless. Don't let it say that you're weak for taking a day to collect yourself, or that you failed because you didn't quite meet your goal.

Let your ideals push you forward, but don't let them hold you back. There are no perfect days.

The New Normal

In an earlier post, I spoke candidly about my nearly decade long fight against an eating disorder. Of all the vicious things that people experience in life, eating disorders are among the most insidious.

They come from your own mind, and you can't just leave it behind. You can't detox from that voice in your head that says you'll never be good enough, that people won't love you, that everyone will leave you unless you take control of yourself.


What do you do when the toxic person in your life, the one who is ruining your health and stealing away your happiness, is yourself?

There is only one thing to do. You somehow have to learn to get stronger than the voice in the back of your mind.

After I got pregnant with Nadine, I had very few relapses. Once every couple of weeks or so, just when I was feeling particularly crumby or having a bad day.

The relapses got less frequent as my pregnancy wore on, and after she was born, I experienced blissful freedom from the pressure to purge. I might have relapsed only a handful of times in the year after she was born.

It was amazing. After eight years of trying to ignore the eating disorder tape playing constantly in my mind, it was almost gone. Something had made it fade into the background.

Because I enjoyed the silence (something I had been seeking for what seemed like an eternity), I was hesitant to get back into any sort of calorie counting or eating control for fear I might wake a sleeping dragon.

I was heavy from pregnancy. I did not like the way I looked and I did not like how I felt, but those feelings were bearable if it meant my eating disorder was cured -- for a while at least.

But I wanted to run again and I was still experiencing terrible digestive system problems (years of purging will do that to you).

So I did something brave and I changed. I tried following a nutritarian style of eating to hopefully help support my workouts at Sisu.

I cut out meat, most dairy, eggs, sugar, refined grains, and added cooking oils. I started piling on the plants: fruits, legumes, tons of veggies, whole grains, nuts, and seeds. Some might call that change extreme. But it's less extreme than forcing yourself to empty your stomach as punishment for eating a cookie.

Nutritarian philosophy advocates not necessarily for a vegan lifestyle (I had a few bites of chicken last night), but instead for a nutrient-dense one. Veggies and fruits are highest in vitamins and minerals. They have the most nutrients per calorie. Meat, dairy, and sugar, while delicious, offer the least. So, these are eaten sparingly, if at all.

My digestive problems are gone. My body is healing. My skin is clear. I need less sleep to function properly. My weight is going down.

But the best side effect is that I never feel the need to purge. Everything I am eating is nutritional gold. Even if I go out and enjoy a non-compliant meal with a friend or on a date with my husband, I don't feel the pressure to go home and throw it up. Instead, I'm excited to go home and have a salad, a bowl of fruit with almond butter, or a smoothie for my next meal.

A few people who have seen me eat recently have made comments about how nice it will be to go back to a "normal" diet once I meet my goal weight. But I'm not going to go back. I'll always eat this way, and not only to avoid digestive problems.

I'm no longer afraid of eating until I am full. I don't see food as my enemy. I appreciate my body more. I'm more accepting of myself.

This is the new normal. And I'm happy about that.

Consistency and Hard Work

Hard work was part of my childhood. I can mostly thank my dad for that. I have a lazy streak that runs deep, and there was no place for lazy while I was growing up.

Wood had to be gathered for the winter, so every Thanksgiving, we would load, split, and stack. There had to be enough in the woodshed to last so that we didn't run out mid-February.

Chickens and pigs had to be fed, even when it was -35 degrees outside. So we'd bundle up and trek out with buckets of warm water and containers of slop.

Brush had to be cleared, gardens weeded, lawns mowed, snow shoveled, the house cleaned. Someone had to do it.

The work of my childhood is something I am proud of and extremely grateful for. It gave me a gift -- a hard work mindset.

I took that with me to work at a landscaping company, which was sucky work no matter the day. Hour after hour of stacking bricks, shoveling rocks, pulling weeds, hauling water, stacking pallets, and throwing sod rolls. When it was sunny, it was hot. When it was raining, it was miserable. It was a great job.

As my readers know, recently I joined a workout group. Sisu Strength Academy. I looked up the word "sisu" online soon after I joined. The top result is "stoic determination, tenacity of purpose, grit, bravery, resilience, and hardiness."

The workouts are tough. I always avoided workouts like before that because I thought, "Well, who wants to do that anyway. Flipping tires, rowing like crazy... Nope. Nope."

But now, when the workouts are hard, I think about my dad. I think about hauling that wood in the autumn and getting up at the crack of dawn to water the chickens. I think about what sustained me through those hours of shoveling road crush every summer. A purpose. A goal. The sense of being on a team. The feeling of pride when the work was done and knowing you did the best you could.

Growing up, my family was my team. I had to do my part. The landscaping work was rewarding at the end of the day, but it also helped pay for my tuition. I saved every dollar possible.

So, hard work has its place. But if you work hard for day, what have you got?

Sore muscles maybe.
One job well done.

The really tough thing though is to get up and do it again the next day. Consistency and hard work are pals. Buddies.

Consistency is the thing that keeps you working hard. Seeing the big picture. Shoveling more rocks even when you're tired and want to quit. Eating the salad anyway, even when everyone else is eating pizza.

Consistency is the ocean beating against the rocks of your bad habits and limitations. The wave smashes down on the rock again and again and again. One wave wouldn't make a difference. Thousands of waves, millions of waves turn that rock into sand.

So, what has consistency and hard work done for me the past three months?

 

The picture on the left is May 2019. The picture on the right is August 2019. Three months of hard work. Three months of consistency. There's still a long way to go.

How do you stay consistent? You dig in. You accept that you might be uncomfortable, and then you forge ahead anyway.

Sisu. Tenacity of purpose. Thanks, Dad.

I'll Go And See What I Can Do

The ongoing battle of my body continues, so to speak. But the field has changed, a lot.

About seven weeks ago, Clark called me and said, I've signed myself up for this new workout place. Clark and I have been a bit concerned about how his schedule and general sleep loss has affected his fitness, so I was happy to hear he might have found a good solution.

"What's this place called?"
"Sisu Strength Academy? I think?"
"Well, that sounds like it would work really well for you."
"Well," Clark said, with a little hesitation, "I think it would work well for you too."
"Oh, I don't think so. I've just started a new running program, and I don't want anything to distract from that."
"But you're always saying how you can't do as much as you want to because you don't have the endurance and strength built up."
"Well," I paused, thinking. "We can't afford anything else."

So it went on like this. We can't afford it. I'm too busy. I don't like meeting new people. I just want to run again. Those types of workouts aren't really my thing.

But, I agreed to go with him to a free trial week.

The first class (a Tuesday) was the hardest workout ever. As the trainer-guy (as he was named for the next several weeks, sorry Nick) showed me what moves to do and as I watched everyone else do them, I almost laughed at how bad I was at it all. A foundational newbie. As green as it gets.

I was sore the next day. I couldn't walk down the stairs without clinging to the banister. But, the week was free, so I needed to go to the next class.

I still remember that workout. It was 10 sets of 10 front squats, with weight. I couldn't hinge down into the squat. My chest kept wanting to cave in, and I couldn't keep my elbows up as high as they needed to be. I couldn't even manage the bar, so I got the lighter bar. I did all ten sets -- barely.

Forget walking downstairs. I couldn't even sit down.

But I kept going, and soon the free week was over.

And I signed up for six more months. "I'll do some article writing and extra editing to cover the cost," I told Clark.

I go every day I can go, even when I don't feel like it. I don't even think about skipping. On days when I am sore, I think, well I'll go and see what I can do, and then I do it. On days when I am tired, I think, I'll be just as tired here at home, so I'll go and see what I can do. On days when I'm feeling down about myself, I think, I'll feel worse if I stay away, so I might as well go and see what I can do.

I took a before picture, and a month later I took a progress picture. I don't know if I will share those yet. I still have a lot of negativity about what my body can do. I still struggle with feelings of self-consciousness and shame about how I look, and I'm working on those.

But progress isn't all on the outside. It's on the inside. I stand taller now. My posture is better. I'm not on the lightest bar anymore. I can lunge with weights now, instead of just with my body. And I can run faster.

I think about food differently, but I also think about it better. My thoughts aren't about what is bad, but instead about what is good, what is more good, and what is most good. I try and fill myself with the things that are the most good, and what a difference there as well.

What a different mindset. Instead of I can't, or I don't think I can, or I'm just not the kind of person who does that sort of thing -- maybe think, "I'll go, and see what I can do." You might be able to do more than you ever thought possible.