Heart Magazine

Stop waiting for the perfect time to be the perfect person, and give yourself the grace you deserve.

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Dedicated to those who have loved us so well. To our families and friends: thank you.

thank you Heart Volume I was made possible by the support of 246 f inancial backers on Kickstarter. We asked a million asks and spammed your media feeds with ads and videos. Thank you, Kickstarter supporters, for your encouragement and monetary contribution to Heart. We owe Volume I to you, and are forever grateful!

Abby Giffin

Caitlin Baran

Emily Daniels

JayJay Schenbeck

Katherine Colvin

Linda Lewis

Nancy Garcia

Sheri Langley

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Emily Guier

Jean Tiner

Kathleen

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Skylar

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Shereia Fulton

Hi friends, My name is Rachel LeBeau and this is certainly the biggest letter I’ve ever had to write. I am 29 years old and live in Wyoming with my high school sweetheart and our three kids.

I’m so honored that you’re here.

As a woman in this world, I have spent so much time wondering if I am doing things right. I have spent just as much time believing I am doing things wrong. And based on a lifetime of observations, I’m willing to bet that you’ve felt that way too.

I want more. I get tired. I worry. I’ve known heartbreak so big I thought I’d never move forward. I’ve known shame so huge that it still hurts if I give myself enough time to think on it. I get mad and yell, I eat junk when I’m stressed, and there are some nights where I just have to cry before falling asleep.

But I’m working to change the voice inside that says those things make me less. I’m working to believe that whether or not I have three wrinkles across my forehead and my butt has doubled in size since high school, I am a person who is worthy of respect, grace, and the freedom of letting the small stuff fall away. I am more than the best things about me, and I am more than the worst things too. I have a heart to share.

The catalyst for this was the birth of my youngest, Henry, in 2014. I had presumed that the biggest difficulty his life would bring us was that we’d be three times as tired and I’d be wearing Spanx full-time. But just 24 hours after we welcomed him into our family, he was being flown to Children’s Hospital Colorado with an unknown heart problem and we suddenly found ourselves in fear that we’d lose everything. A diagnosis of heart disease gave us the kind of perspective only something really hard can; our family learned that it’s never worth it to wait until later.

So we say I love you a lot. We forgive as quickly as we can stand it. We eat dessert before dinner.

We love each other as hard as we can in the time that we have.

All my life, I felt like I was searching for a bigger purpose. I was waiting for someone or something to point me in the right direction. But as it turned out, the answers weren’t clear, and it was up to me to make good from the hard things that have happened.

The hard is still hard, but by surrounding myself with messages that say that regardless, I am enough, I am teaching myself to believe it. And I hope Heart will help you do the same.

I hope you will read these stories and recognize yourself in the heart of another woman.

I hope you will read these stories and realize you are not alone.

I hope you will read these stories and truly believe that the woman you are, no matter the struggles or achievements, is enough.

This publication is about taking a break from the quest for perfect. These stories are from the hearts of over 60 contributors who want to encourage you in the belief that you too can unearth goodness in your life.

We believe your story is important, that you are significant, and that the real truth is more inspiring than a million glossed over niceties.

From our hearts to yours: we hope you’ll be uplifted and encouraged by Heart Volume I. Love, PHOTOS BY DANIELLE DEFIORE RACHEL LEBEAU

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

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HEART 7

contents Editor-in-Chief

Rachel LeBeau

Managing Editor

Sara LaFaille

Art Director

Breanna Pair

acceptance

cover photos courtesy of Leah McEachern

authors Amanda Gregory Ashley La Rue Beth Orchard Brandie Maddox Bridgette Watson Carol Christy Shaw Destiny Sosa Erin Myers Erin Whalen Heather Zeni Joanna Serth

Karley Kiker Keary Cheney Korina Moore Lauren Goldstein Lauren Penna Lexi Behrndt Lexi Larsen Liz Lauck Martha Kate Stainsby Meghan Moravcik Walbert Megan Williams

courage Melinda Wilder Nakeia C. Homer Priya Mishra Rachel LeBeau Rhiannon Bosse Rose Dudley Sara LaFaille Scott and Elise Grice Suzie Mahon Teresa Anderson Wendy Bradford

photographers Abigail Fayre Amy Paulson Anna Cate Bellington Ashley La Rue Bradley James Photography Briley Noel Butter Studios Callie Manion Photography Caryn Noel Danielle DeFiore Edelle Photography Ellie Neely Elizabeth in Love Floataway Studios

Grace and Salt Hayley Rae Janelle Rose Jessica Perez Photography Joseph Haeberle Jules Photo & Design Kaisha Bannon, Storytelling Photographer Kate Burn Photography Katie Jameson Photography Kelley Raye Korina Moore Kristen Dyer Kristin Dunker Photography Leah McEachern

Hi friends, I’m Sara Ashley, but you can call me SAL. I am putting down roots in the great state of Texas with my husband and our ornery-but-lovable English bulldog. And y’all, I couldn’t be more excited that you are holding a copy of Heart! This has been an absolute labor of love and a process that has changed my heart forever. We are honored to be sharing the stories of so many amazing women, and are so endlessly thankful for your support!

Sara LaFaille

Love, The Nelsons Maren Miller Photography Meg Sloan Photography Megan Lee Photography Melissa Oholendt Miss Jee’s Photography Moriah Elisabeth Nan Strasburger Rachael Cullins Rachel Lyn Photography The Archibald Project The Brauns We Are Bubblerock 432 Photography

When I first heard of the idea behind Heart I was intrigued and eager to learn more and get involved.

Then, when I began reading through the stories and looking at the beautiful images I was completely captivated. We have been brought to tears many times while working on this magazine, these stories really hit home. I’m blessed to be able to work with women that are sharing their stories, because every single one is absolutely beautiful.

Breanna Pair

Special thanks to our Creative Assistant, Tori Aaker, and Copy Editor, Jenna Wiles.

The Heart Mag, LLC | 2015 Made proudly by hearts in Wyoming, Texas, and Colorado

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you are enough........................................................................ 12 learning to love me.................................................................. 16 so not everyone likes you......................................................... 20 chasing freedom...................................................................... 22 me, unfiltered. . ........................................................................ 26 beauty transcends.................................................................... 30

how to love............................................................................. 38 dishes on christmas................................................................. 42 her children............................................................................ 46 everything and nothing. . .......................................................... 52 a change in plans..................................................................... 62

growth

talk until you find the truth..................................................... 69 soft heart................................................................................ 70 farmer’s wife........................................................................... 74 goodbye, ed............................................................................. 84 three towel hooks.................................................................... 88 left my heart in dakar.............................................................. 94

hope

beauty from ashes.................................................................... 102 the spare room........................................................................ 106 i wanted more......................................................................... 108 love calcutta arts..................................................................... 112 more than sick.. ....................................................................... 114 waiting with great hope........................................................... 120

inspiration

heart loves.............................................................................. 130 nashville star........................................................................... 132 my life’s work.......................................................................... 138 home is with you..................................................................... 144 family night............................................................................ 150

love

big love. . ................................................................................. 158 the myth of joy. . ...................................................................... 164 put yourself out there.............................................................. 172 interrupted fairy tale............................................................... 174 the newlyweds......................................................................... 180 a heart built for six.................................................................. 184 woman on fire......................................................................... 198

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Dear Reader, While reading these stories, we were struck with so many feelings. Some sadness. Some joy. And for so many, admiration of strength. The range of emotions runs the gamut. We immediately felt like we needed a steadfast approach to handle all the feelings. An approach that was empathetic, delicate, and supportive; an approach that clearly shows that though the stories told here are moving, they don’t define the women who’ve shared them.

So as you are about to jump into these stories and stand in these women’s shoes, we wanted to help you with an approach to digest it all—the beautiful and the hard.

We have to both remember and forget.

Whether you know the author of a story or not, we hope that you immediately connect with her. We hope her words speak directly to your heart. But we also want to you keep in mind that there is so much more to each and every one of these women. There is more than the heartache she’s endured, the time she journeyed overseas, or the tragedy she’s overcome.

There is more to her than what you see on these pages. Be sensitive—let these stories serve as a reminder that you never know what someone has faced in their life. Let them be that nagging prompt to be kinder to everyone you meet. But right after you’ve digested it, we need you to forget a little. Instead of focusing on the weight of it, we need you to see her for the amazing life she’s built. We need her to be the woman who is advocating for other women and affecting change—not the girl who was abused. We need her to be Carol, Ashley, Lauren, Erin, Lexi, Megan. Not someone who is defined by whatever story it is she so bravely chose to share with us.

She needs you to acknowledge her and see her courage. She doesn’t need you to treat her differently, but rather to better understand her journey and the woman she is. She didn’t share her story so you would feel bad for her, but because she wants you to know her and women like her. She wants you know what built her. The scars, the tragedy, and the triumph. This story shared shaped her, yes—but it’s not all there is to know.

Try along with us to delicately balance the remembering with the forgetting. Acknowledge what’s brought these women here, and appreciate them for what they’ll do going forward.

There’s something we can learn from every woman in this book, among those things acceptance, courage, and love.

With love,

PHOTO BY 432 PHOTOGRAPHY

acceptance

The Heart Team

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you are enough B Y B R I D G E T T E WA T S O N

P H O T O S B Y A N N A C AT E B E L L I N G T O N

As women we all too often hear the words that tell us we aren’t good enough. We hear them from the people we look up to, our friends, society, other women, and eventually from ourselves.

You need to learn how to use natural light better in your photos.

You don’t have special talents.

You shouldn’t dress that way.

You shouldn’t have piercings and tattoos; it’s ugly.

You’re too stupid to f inish school.

You’re not good enough.

That hurts.

It hurts.

I like to think of myself as someone who can deal with hurt and move on but all of those moments, when I have been cut down, have made it hard for me to rise again.

It ’s heartbreaking because with enough repetition we begin to believe the lies that we are not worth it, that we are not valuable, that we are useless, that we are not good enough.

After several interviews, I decided that if I’m not good enough, then these are not the people for me. The people who accept me for who I am are the people that I need.

In high school, I was a choral and operatic singer but every time I would audition for a solo in either of the groups, I was told that I was not good enough. A girl in choir picked on me every single day, telling me that I was fake because I wore hair extensions and that I had fat knees, in addition to not being a good enough singer.

I have learned that there is power in the words spoken over you. Whether they are words said by you about yourself or by another party, there is power.

It seemed as though everywhere I turned, someone was telling me that I wasn’t good enough to do the one thing I loved. The thing that brought me the most joy, I wasn’t good enough to even participate. Because of instances such as those and many others, I suffered from depression and anxiety for a number of years. It’s slightly sad to admit that both of those stemmed from fear of rejection in the form of people telling me that I couldn’t do something or that I wasn’t good at said thing.

Moving on to now, I’ve gone through college, and been on countless job interviews for all types of jobs and almost every time, they told me that my appearance was not good enough. My tattoos and my nose ring were not appropriate and my hair color wasn’t natural so it was too distracting, and those things hurt. They stuck in my heart and my mind. While those are simply regarding my appearance,

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they are a reflection of my soul. They were completely disregarding my education or experience in said field and simply basing their idea of who I am and the work I’m capable of off the fact that I look alternative to their ideal norm.

A study placed two plants in separate rooms and cared for both of the plants in a way that would maintain health, but to one plant they spoke positive words and to the other they spoke negative words. The plant that had been spoken to kindly grew much faster than the other plant, which died within the first week of the study.

I have a very strong faith in Jesus Christ and he’s where I turn in times of need. There are scripture verses that emphasize the “power of the tongue” and state that what you speak can definitely come to be. This has been proven to be true in my own life simply by speaking positivity over myself in the morning.

In the morning I get up and say: “You are blessed, you are loved, you are useful, you are beautiful, you are confident, you are capable, you are amazing, you are favored, you are creative, you are joyful, you are kind, you are loving, you are giving, you are helpful, you are fantastic.”

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We all know how easy it is to remember ugly things when we hear them, but you can use the power of words to move forward too. When you hear something enough you begin to believe it. You start to feel the positive words in your bones. You feel them on your skin. You start to see who you really are.

The other morning, I was having my quiet time and a little poem popped into my head.

Wild and untamed Free like the birds Free like the breeze She was f ree, indeed.

– Bridgette Watson, Free

I love this poem because it describes what we as women are supposed to be. We are supposed to be wild and untamed in our true selves. We shouldn’t let someone’s, even our own, skewed perception of us determine who we think we are.

This brings me to the importance of building each other up, as women. We should believe in each other. If other people are tearing us down for being who we are, it is so important to have someone to tell you the truth about who you are.

While it is vital to speak positive and encouraging things over yourself, the impact only increases to have another source of those encouraging words.

Surround yourself with people who tell you who you are.

Be a woman who supports others and encourages other women to do the best they are capable of. Urge other women to be who they were created to be. Find friends who can pull you up and show you your greatness when it’s hard for you to find.

It is imperative that we encourage one another, but it is just as crucial to not compare ourselves to the people we think are better than us, to the people we see getting the opportunities that we desire.

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Comparison breeds imperfection. The more we compare ourselves to the people around us the more imperfect we think we are.

She’s prettier than me.

She’s skinnier than me.

She has better skin than me.

She sings better than me.

All the guys like her.

She dresses better than me.

She’s smarter than me.

She’s more athletic than me.

I am not good enough.

But you are.

You are.

You are amazing.

There is not one ounce of you that isn’t supposed to be here. No matter what you have done in the past or what you may do in the future, you are of immeasurable value.

I love the quote that says, “Your value is not determined by someone’s inability to see your worth.” Even if that crush, or that job, or that friend, or that talent scout told you that you didn’t measure up, what they say doesn’t define how amazing you are. The only person who can truly define your worth is you.

You have the power of your mind to let words enter and stick to you or to throw them out and take a stand for the truth that you are valuable; that you are worth it; that you are good enough.

Be yourself, girl because—You. Are. Good.

You are enough.

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learning to love me

BY LAUREN GOLDSTEIN P H O T O S B Y K E L L E Y R AY E

As I sit on my patio, hearing the birds chirp, feeling the now-and-again rain drops, and sensing the Southern wind blow across my fingertips as I type, I take a sip of coffee and reflect; I reflect on the hardest, darkest, most tormented years of my life. Today I want to talk to you about the hardest journey you will ever take—the journey to loving yourself.

It turns out that this is the key that unlocks every door of possibility, from relationships, to business, to love—everything starts with you and more specifically everything starts with how much you love yourself. Some people call this self-worth—I like to call it self-love.

Many years ago, my world was filled with anger, resentment, loss, pity, blame, darkness, and cruelty. The person I was the worst with was myself; so while your outer world may not look like that, does your inner one? Yes there were people that I got upset with, people I resented, people that I blamed, people that I was knowingly cruel to, but it took me years of personal development, tears, asking God “why,” thoughts of suicide, and finally surrender to realize that those people were just mirrors reflecting back to me what I already hated in myself.

When I look back at those dark, paralyzing times I realized that the epicenter was that I was unable (or unwilling?) to love myself, and equally as bad, I had based all of my selfworth on my career in the medical field. I did not realize the true danger in that until the day arrived where I made a choice to leave the medical field, to find another way to help people, without the red tape of insurance companies and interoffice politics. Suddenly I was uncertain of who I was, I was angry, upset, lost, tired, unhappy, and belittling and berating myself at every turn. I tried to find solace in shopping—after all, pretty things make me happy, but that just landed me in several tens of thousands of dollars of debt. I tried to find solace in the bottle of whiskey that was on my counter—you know, to numb the pain and hatred I felt inside, but that just left me foggy, emotional, and with quite the headache. I even thought seriously about the peace I might feel if I just ended it all—yes I contemplated suicide on more than one occasion. [I want to take a pause here for a second and speak to that statement. I believe that there are many people who’s inner battles you know nothing about. I think that suicide is a serious topic that we need to speak more about. For me, it was something I considered to end the pain, shame, hopelessness, and darkness I felt, but more than that I think it was a distress signal, it was a way for me to say, “I need help, please help me!” With that said, if someone is having a hard time or a bad day, take some time out of your busy schedule just to listen, sometimes all we need is someone who loves us and believes in us, even we

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forgot to believe in and love ourselves. Sometimes we need a gentle reminder of our strengths and that we would be missed. You may save a life you didn’t realize needed saving.

OK, soapbox over.]

Lucky for me I had a support system of friends and family that assured me that the pain was temporary and that I would be missed. I remember sobbing uncontrollably, unable to catch my breath, on the cold bathroom floor one rainy night in Dallas, saying to myself, “Is this it? Is this all I get?

I work so hard and still I can’t see the light in the darkness.”

The truth was, to everyone on the outside, I was a success, I had two great businesses, I had a beautiful apartment, a trendy wardrobe, great friends, volunteer work—but on the inside I was empty. I had a choice to make, let the darkness envelop me or fight to get to the light. Obviously you know by now I chose the latter, so let me share with you a few insights on how I clawed my way out of the darkness and fell in love with myself.

First, I had to surrender to a few things. The first was the reality that I am not defined by my credentials, my location, or my job—I am defined by the impact I have on people, the legacy I leave, and the happiness and success I help others uncover within them. The second was that I am not perfect and frankly I don’t want to be. There will always be someone more beautiful or successful than me, just like there will always be someone who has less. It is up to me to make progress, not perfection my goal. The last thing I had to surrender to was God. Now I would not consider myself

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a terribly religious person, but the truth is, when I leaned a little more on Him and spent a little less time trying to figure out how every puzzle piece went together, and just believed it would all work out, I began to relax and love myself a little more.

Second, I had to change perspectives. Once I started coming out of the darkness I realized that I needed to spend more time on gratitude and love and less time on lack and hate.

When I shifted this perspective I was able to not only appreciate the things I have in my life, but magically, I was able to appreciate the gifts, talents, and contributions I already had inside me. I suddenly realized that I had spend the majority of my adult years comparing everyone else’s highlight reel to my behind the scenes—always coming up short in my eyes, never knowing of what struggles they faced behind closed doors. Once I shifted my perspective I was able to see how my uniqueness was actually the thing that made me me, that drew people to me, that allowed me to help people in such meaningful ways; and for the first time in my life I celebrated it! Sometimes it is the tiniest shift in perspective that can set your life back on track.

The third thing I learned was perhaps the hardest. I had to learn to be brave. I realized that so much of what I was telling myself was based on someone else’s perspectives, beliefs, dreams, limitations, or fears. I had unknowingly taken on those things that were not true to who I was or wanted to be. I had to be brave and say NO. I had to say no to “playing it safe,” no to “status-quo,” no to someone else’s vision for me. I want you to read that last sentence again because I think it is the most important one you may ever read. The reason that sentence is so important is because when you make a choice to be true to yourself and your vision, you change your life. We all have something inside of us—perhaps something we have long since forgotten that needs to be reawakened—something that makes our heart flutter, our mind kick into overdrive, yields a irresistible smile, and makes us feel unstoppable. It can be anything, but only you know what talent or opportunity you are being called to bring forth and share with the world. You owe it to yourself, and frankly the world, to not keep it hidden anymore; you never know how you will change the future of tomorrow.

When I was lying on that cold tile floor I hated myself, I hated everything about myself— from my hair, to my weight, to my life as a whole. I can say with certainty that when we are not in a place of loving ourselves we shut down, close off, and loathe this life. However, when I made the choice to pick myself up off the floor, blow my nose, wipe my tears, and take a brave step forward it was love that got me there. It started at first with the love I had from my friends and family, but it soon grew to the love I had for my life from gratitude, then it went on to blossom to the love I had for myself from myself. You see, when we make the choice to love ourselves for who we are at this moment in life, an amazing shift happens—we suddenly become present, we suddenly begin to shine, and above all else we begin to attract the very things we wanted all along. Quickly we realize we are worth it and we do deserve every dream we have ever dreamt! The secret is that this world reflects and magnifies what you believe and say to yourself so if you love and believe in your self-worth, then that is what will be reflected and drawn into your life.

The journey to loving yourself is the hardest you will ever take and it is something that you will have to work on a little bit every day until it becomes innate, but it is the most rewarding. When we love our bodies, our minds, our flaws, our strengths, our everything, then we can grow into the amazing human we are meant to be—after all we were created not to suffer, hate, pay bills, and die; no we were created to love, grow, shine, and leave a legacy. If you find you are in an abusive relationship with yourself like I was, it is time to take control, say no, and begin again, this time with love.

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HEART

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so not everyone likes you We asked, and Heart readers answered.

Here are nine reasons why it’s f ine if you are not everyone’s favorite: 1. Pretending is the worst

You can watch your language and eat less pizza, go on obligatory hikes, and even watch shows you absolutely hate, but ultimately, you make yourself miserable when you’re trying to make someone like you. Acting in a way that is contrary to what you really feel or believe will make you miserable. If you pretend just to be liked, you’ll have to keep up with the falsehoods and never be able to take a deep breath and relax. Someone’s affections are not worth compromising your health and happiness over.

2. We all have values that guide us

Does someone dislike you because you stand strongly for something they disagree with? Do they not approve of a choice you’ve made and are proud of ? Do the two of you take opposite sides on something fundamental? If so, you’ve got to let go of the worry that comes from them disliking you. Your morals and guiding values aren’t something you’ll ever concede, and likely neither will this other person. Agree to disagree and keep moving, sister.

3. Our job isn’t to please others

Many readers expressed that their belief in God or a higher power helps keep them focused on what ’s really important. We don’t exist solely to make other humans happy, but rather, for a higher purpose.

Whether you’re religious or not, the lifelong quest of accommodating the needs and wishes of everyone else will leave you feeling empty. Remember your calling—your quest or mission even—and cling tight to that when you’re feeling like you don’t fit in.

4. We need to love ourselves more

Throughout our lives, it is our responsibility to learn to love ourselves. Oprah says, “If you’re holding anyone else accountable for your happiness, then you’re wasting your time,” and though that can be a gut check for us all, the words are true. Holding out for the approval of others, working to mold ourselves into someone likable, waiting for someone else to tell us what we should be telling ourselves: none of that is worth it. Invest time exploring yourself. Learn what brings you joy and work to make it happen for yourself.

5. Happiness is more valuable than being stretched thin

Are you proud of what you’ve done? Do you tell jokes because you think they are funny? Step in to lead when the job needs done? Go out on your own if there’s something you really want to do? The time spent enjoying what you’re doing is so much more valuable than pushing yourself to do things that others will like. You deserve some self-preservation, and if that means you’re eating artichoke dip and watching Lifetime movies alone on Sunday, then so be it because moments where you are truly happy are more valuable than anywhere you’re in limbo.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY KRISTEN DYER

6. Fitting the mold is a slippery slope

As humans, it ’s natural for us to seek the approval of others in some way. But when we seek that attention frequently or place too much importance in the opinions of others, it becomes hard for us to function without it. Yes, we want to know that we are appreciated and that we are doing a good job, but by constantly trying to maintain approval, we run the risk of doing things solely to be told we are good enough. And what happens if we do all of that and the accolades don’t come? Do we then believe we aren’t good after all? Don’t spend too much energy on trying to gain approval from outside energy. Tell yourself that you are good, and try not to forget it.

7. Negativity can be motivating

We’ve all worked super hard on something, proudly sent it off into the world, and encountered negative feedback. Because, hello, not everyone is going to like you. Ahem. What we decide to do with that energy is our choice alone. We can let it shut us down—convince ourselves that continuing isn’t worth it and that the idea was a bad one in the first place. Or we can allow ourselves one night of ice cream binging and then look with fresh eyes for motivation in the harsh words. Is there something to be improved? Can we do even just a little bit better? If not, then high five yourself, girl, and eat Lucky Charms for breakfast. Most likely though, we’ll see that if we look hard enough, there’s always room for improvement. Don’t let change deflate your balloon; use the feedback to make positive changes.

8. Sometimes days are just bad

So someone cut you off in the parking lot. A patron left you a terrible tip. Your friend didn’t give you the answer you wanted. Your boss didn’t reply to your email. It ’s easy to focus inward and blame yourself. This is all my fault… But the biggest favor you’ll ever do yourself is to remember that just as you sometimes have hard days, so do the people you encounter. A negative interaction almost always has more to do with the other person than it does with you, and it helps to keep that in mind. The way someone treats you might make you wonder if it’s something you did, but more often than not, a bad day is just that.

9. Love is better than like

I’m sure that if asked, you’d rather have a few people who love you instead of a hundred people who kind of like you. Whether in business, in morals, education, or friendship, you have to do what feels the best and is the right thing for you. People may not like it. Blow them a kiss as they go because what you want, what you deserve, is people who love you hard. You deserve clients who appreciate your unique strengths, a partner who loves you in spite of your quirks, and friends who like the same weird movies and snacks as you do. Hold out for the people who cherish the unique things about you, and don’t be afraid to say goodbye to those who don’t.

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chasing freedom B Y A M A N D A G R E G O RY

P H O T O S B Y A B I G A I L FAY R E

The pain was excruciating. Even when my newborn slumbered peacefully next to me, I lay awake. I held my face to find relief as tears streamed down both cheeks in the dark of night.

My state of mind would soon match the inky black of those hours.

Three days earlier I was just a pregnant mom with a 17-month-old. Swollen feet. Swollen hands. Scratch that. Swollen everything. Busy trying to keep my feet up and my daughter’s diaper dry. Waiting on the arrival of another miracle. I thought the years prior had pushed me to desperation. Unemployment. Miscarriage. Broken dreams and endless uncertainty. This was my third pregnancy and although we lost the second baby to miscarriage, my body had indeed changed in all the ways the honest mamas said it would. A little bit bigger. A little bit wilted.

But that was not where my journey with self-hatred began.

I grew up in a loving household. I was the oldest of four kids; two sisters and a brother. Each of whom surpassed me in height by the time they reached high school. I guess you kind of expect that from a brother. But measuring in at 5’2” when both your sisters stand at 5’11” was quite noticeable. My dad always praised us in our differences though. He was constantly reminding us that it was always possible to want what someone else had and to instead focus on our strengths and to view unique as beautiful.

My husband and I have known each other for most of our lives. With a six-year age gap it wasn’t love at first sight, but after years of friendship we realized we wanted it to last forever.

And because we already knew each other so well, we fell quick and deep and were married by the time I was 20.

There are benefits to marrying your best friend. There was an ease to the honesty in which we communicated with each other. There was a comfort and security that only comes with nearness through many seasons. There was a confidence in our intimacy that made us boldly believe in our love and in our story. And he’d already seen me at my worst. Or so I thought.

Through my pregnancy my husband had been supportive and loving. He was patient with me and chose to focus on the parts of me that weren’t stretching and swelling.

“You have the prettiest smile babe.”

He was always saying that.

I had been battling preeclampsia for months. I was retaining water. I hadn’t seen my feet in a long time. I reached 37 weeks and my symptoms were worsening. I had headaches regularly and spots in my vision. They wanted to me to make it to 38 weeks before inducing and so I tried to stay off my feet—quite unsuccessfully as I chased my toddler around each day.

I was at home enjoying my daughter’s naptime, when half of my face got numb and heavy. I looked in the mirror to see it unresponsive and drooping. After rushing to the hospital and being poked and prodded, an ultrasound determined that our baby was OK, but that I had

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Bell’s palsy—a nerve disorder that paralyzes half the face.

I thought I was a confident woman who saw beyond the outward appearance. But facial paralysis was the thing that revealed my deeper uncertainties.

them against you. I see the devil—a mallet in each hand, beating you down every time you get back up. And the Bell’s palsy? Well now you’re doing his job for him. He just put the mallets in YOUR hands and walked away.”

I no longer believed my husband could love me. I knew he deserved better than this. He hadn’t chosen me this way. He was stuck with me this way.

One session was all it took. I never went back. Every time my mind went raging on bashing myself, all I could see were mallets in my hands. So each day became an exercise—of dropping them and walking away. Each day my mission was to find freedom.

I was terrified of what my girls would think of me once they were old enough to realize something was wrong with their mommy’s face.

I couldn’t look in the mirror. Seeing a photo of myself from before onset could reduce me to tears. It only served as a reminder of what I had lost. I could see an excited sparkle in my eyes that no longer existed. Someone daringly ready to embark on an adventure because they had not yet experienced the danger that adventure brings. I didn’t think I deserved to be loved anymore. I pushed people away. I stopped leading worship at church. I was angry. Other women complained about what pregnancy had done to them, but in my eyes, all they had to do was wear a shirt to hide their scars. Mine were hanging out for all to see. No padded bra or shapewear could hide the damage that had been done.

So I cried. For a long time. I hated myself and the people who tried to encourage me. It was affecting my marriage. In an effort to hide my face, all I was really doing was hiding from my life. My face wasn’t recovering and so I lived in the dark of my heart and my head. I allowed the despair to reign and I stopped dreaming.

But hope. I never managed to stop hoping. So eventually I went and saw a Christian therapist.

He listened to me. Saw the self-hatred. And when I finally took a breath to wipe some tears away he said, “Well...do you know what I see?”

“I see a girl who has spent most of her young life serving Jesus. Someone who storms the gates of heaven and takes people with her through worship leading. Someone who the Lord has gifted to do mighty things for His kingdom.

And I see Satan trying to take you out. I’ve heard your whole story. The miscarriages. The unemployment. The lost friendships. And I’m not saying he had the power to cause all those things. I’m just saying he has been able to use

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I needed to stop pursuing “pretty.” The kind that comes and goes. The kind that fades with time. The kind that makeup accentuates and a long night with no sleep can destroy. The kind the world sells me. And the kind that Bell’s palsy can rob from me.

Freedom feels better. And the only person who can steal it from me…is me.

That therapy session was the turning point for me. Since then it’s been baby steps toward freedom. Leading worship again? Another step toward freedom. Posting a selfie?

Another step toward freedom. Allowing my husband to tell me I’m beautiful? One more step…chasing freedom. After all:

“Freedom feels better than pretty ever will.”

Morgan Day Cecil Now when I see a photo from “before” I can still see that sparkle. But I also see someone who relies on herself more than her God. Someone who had only praised in victory, and not on the battlefield or in defeat. I see a girl who had only been loved because she thought she deserved it somehow. Not yet a woman who had been loved through all of the reasons she no longer thought she was worthy. I see someone who was not as compassionate, not as prayerful, not as courageous. And sometimes I still miss her. Her plans. Her zest. Her beauty. But her faith had not been tested by fire, and that is the only kind that brings Him glory.

Sometimes the things that almost wreck us, are just meant to recreate us. My face is weak but my soul is stronger.

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It is hard to admit that even though I made these choices about my appearance, I still compared myself to other women. I compared myself to my friends. I compared myself to the women at my work place. I compared myself to women in my community. I am being really transparent here; in my comparisons, I always came up short. Most of the time, I looked in the mirror and saw plain, simple me.

I allowed myself to compare me to others. I told myself that the choices I made about my appearance held me secondary to the beauty I saw in others. I felt self-conscious in staff photos standing next to fellow teachers. Secretly, I told myself that if I styled my hair, wore makeup, dressed differently—I wouldn’t feel that way anymore. At the same time, I held firm in my choices. I resigned myself that I would always feel that way.

me, unfiltered

BY BRANDIE MADDOX

PHOTOS BY JOSEPH HAEBERLE

My name is Brandie Nichole Maddox and this is me. The woman you see in these pictures is me. Not the “Sunday best” me. Not the “job interview” me. Not the “I am trying to impress you” me. This is me. The everyday me.

All this started a few months ago as I scrolled through my Instagram feed. I scanned the pictures and the captions. It wasn’t the first time I read this particular caption, but I happened to see someone post beneath a picture of themselves, #nomakeupmonday. I scrolled further and beneath another picture I read #nofilter. As I looked at picture after picture, reading caption after caption, I thought to myself, “Well, that’s the story of my life.” I never wear makeup. I do very little that changes my appearance. My life could be considered #filterless. If I have a pimple, then the world can see the pimple on my face. If the baby kept me up half the night, then there are circles under my eyes. There’s no hiding it.

For the entirety of my adult life, I have made choices that others would view as different. I choose to wear a bare face and leave my hair uncut and uncolored. I wear skirts and dresses every day.

Yes, I made this choice.

No. It is not always easy.

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Looking back now, I know that many things in my life had added to this idea. My biological father left when I was two. As a little girl, I felt like I must not have been enough.

If I had been enough, he would have wanted to know me.

At some point, I realized that I had just become a burden to him. When I graduated high school, he wanted to know if I had been emancipated so he could stop paying child support, although he rarely did anyway. He died the spring after I finished college without ever getting to know me.

His actions, the letter from the lawyer, his absence, all fed my belief that I wasn’t enough. These feelings bled over into all areas of my life. It shaped the way I interacted with others.

Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of becoming a ballerina. I didn’t just dream the way many girls do, sitting in the audience watching these beautiful, svelte women float across the stage. I trained. Hours of training each week, I dedicated myself to the goal of someday standing on stage and being one of the women I looked up to. When I was 13, I got the opportunity to train with the official school of the Kansas City Ballet. I attended classes five to six days a week, and in the summers, I attended summer intensive camps. I loved and hated it all at the same time.

It was hard but rewarding. When you train at the level that I did for as long I did, you start to get a picture of how others view you, especially when you aren’t the best.

My instructors told me that I had great long lines, and I excelled in adagio (the long, smooth, slow movements), but I struggled with intricate footwork that required great speed. They would use me as the example for turnout and extensions, but then I would get a glaring eye when we would work on petite allegro. I would move to the back of the class and want to hide. I was tall for a ballerina, which made the tight, quick footwork harder for me. I was

selected for a photo shoot for a promotional booklet for the school, but when the final images came out, I was cropped out of the pictures. At 16 years old, I heard a message loud and clear. You are pretty but not pretty enough. You are good but not good enough. It was fuel for a fire already burning.

Three years ago, my husband and I picked up our entire life and relocated to Wyoming so that Paul could get his doctoral degree. I turned down a tenured teaching contract with my school of five years and ended up landing a job with a school within a residential treatment facility. I celebrated my 29th birthday unloading the truck and unpacking boxes in a town where I knew no one. My husband and I, along with our three-year-old son, were basically starting over. At times, it felt like we were on a permanent vacation. Living among the mountains after a lifetime of living in the plains felt like a dream. We joked that maybe we should pinch each other, so we would wake up; it seemed so dream like. Work and school trips took us to beautiful places. We explored our new home and enjoyed all the beauty around us. I should clarify. It wasn’t all dreams and daisies. We worked hard and were met with our share of struggle. Wyoming is a long way from our family and lifetime friends. Those first months in Wyoming were often lonely. Paul’s doctoral program was rigorous and required most of his time. My little boy and I spent many evenings as just the two of us.

In the past, I struggled with relationships with others because I could not be at peace with myself. The crazy part of it all was that I didn’t see it—the poison that was holding me hostage. Maybe it wasn’t as easy to pinpoint because it was internal. Basically, I just thought that this was life. Leaving my home state, my family, and my lifelong friends set me outside of my comfort zone and slowly revealed this struggle to me. It gave me…or maybe forced me, to recognize what was really going on and change it.

Brick by brick, I had built a wall, and brick by brick, I have had to tear it down.

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There have been a thousand things over the last three years that have pushed me to change—to change the way I feel about myself. I met friends who challenged me, stood with me, and helped me see that I wasn’t less. They didn’t see my differences; they just saw me. In turn, it has helped me realize that I am the one who keeps pointing out the differences. They may not have realized the struggle on the inside, but the whole time, I was chipping away at my own opinion of myself. I worked with children who had faced cruel realities and were still standing. They needed me, but I needed them too. They healed my teacher’s heart and renewed my passion for teaching. Together, we accomplished some pretty amazing things. During my pregnancy with my daughter, people stepped in and helped.

Paul and I were humbled by their care and support. Our physical families were many miles away, but our friends became like family filling in the gap where we could not.

The event that has had the greatest impetus toward change in my life has been the birth of my daughter. I look at her, and I see only her. I see nothing I want to change.

Her hair doesn’t need styling. She doesn’t need makeup.

Her round little cheeks are perfect just the way they are.

Looking at her and hoping for her future has brought me to an important realization. I must acknowledge the wall that I have built for myself. I must stop taking this poison that is eating away at me. I will shape her view of herself, and if that is the case, I must change the way I see myself.

Now, I can see the pain I caused myself. I can recognize that the only one I am hurting with the comparisons I was making is me. I have held myself hostage long enough, and I refuse to pass this poison on to my daughter. Finally, as I sit here typing these words, I am taking down the last of

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the bricks. All the pieces of the puzzle are coming together.

I’m pushing over the notion that I am second. I am walking away from the idea that I am not enough.

When a caterpillar transforms into a butterfly, there is a change on the outside. We often use the butterfly to symbolize the change from something humble to something beautiful. This transformation, the one inside of me, is more powerful than that. As I sit here and look at the pictures that Joseph took of me, I realize they are just a symbol of the transformation in the way I speak about myself. I see me for all that I am. I don’t just see long hair and a bare face.

I see a warrior. I see a woman. I see a teacher.

I see a wife. I see a mom. I see hard work.

I see creativity. I see kindness. I see value.

I see me. Just as I am.

I see an opportunity to tell you that the woman on the outside hasn’t really changed, but the woman on the inside is taking off the chains. I know that comparison will always be hard for me, but I am naming my struggle and arming myself for the fight. My value is independent of my appearance or how I compare to those around me. As women, we often are our own worst critics. We tell our daughters they are beautiful while listening to the horrible voices in our heads about ourselves. From all that I have learned, I share with you. Tear down the wall. Break the cycle. You are a warrior. You are enough. You are beautiful.

You are valued. Just as you are.

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beauty transcends

BY ROSE DUDLEY F E AT U R I N G K O R I N A M O O R E A N D D E S T I N Y S O S A

What does beauty mean? If you casually flip open the semiglossed pages of pretty much any fashion magazine ever published, you will be bombarded with plenty of options.

Some will claim the slender model look, others might say it ’s all in the lips, and when all else fails: the classic bust and booty. But, with every image absorbed into the mind of the average woman, one message is made very clear—the definition of beauty isn’t you.

Every year, women spend millions of dollars attempting to fit into the higher standards of false images. We stuff ourselves into smaller sizes, starve our bodies of necessary nutrients, slather our faces in putrid chemicals, and dissolve our money into the next trend. All of this is done in an attempt to fit a mold.

Fashion and makeup can be wonderful opportunities for artistic self-expression. Yes, it can be important to portray your inner self through your appearance. But at what point do we draw the line between defining ourselves through our appearance and allowing our appearance to define ourselves? So, I ask again: What does beauty mean? It ’s a question I am still trying to answer.

On a sunny afternoon in the Art District of Dallas, Texas, I had the privilege of swapping life stories with two incredibly unique and artistically talented women. All three of us struggle with our body images in different ways.

Destiny’s Story Destiny Sosa was born and raised in Dallas, Texas. Her parents were 16 when she was born, and they married young to raise her. Growing up, she was never close to her dad. He had a temper, and her parents were constantly fighting. At the age of nine, her parents divorced. Not so coincidentally, this was the same year that she began to feel insecure about her body. “I’ve always struggled with my body, always. I remember being in fourth grade and feeling

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like a loner. I remember thinking that no one wanted to be my friend and that boys didn’t like me because I was too fat. I was so young.”

In high school, she met an older boy, and they became fast friends, speaking every day and growing close. She developed a huge crush. After he graduated and moved to California, they grew apart, and life went on. He sporadically contacted her throughout the years and would pick up where they left off, “We became consistent again. I believed in my heart that I was going to marry him. It was perfect, and things fell into place.” But the perfect story of love against all odds wasn’t real. “We were talking on Skype every day, then, one day, I just didn’t hear from him again.”

The whirlwind romance ended so abruptly, and Destiny’s experience with first love sent her spiraling into heartbreak.

“I went into a depression my senior year of high school. I had a falling out with my friends, and I was going through a terrible heartbreak. It was awful.”

She graduated from high school and went off to college, still reeling from the blow to her self-esteem. “All I wanted was closure, but he didn’t give me anything. One day we were fine, and the next—nothing.”

Eventually, she did find her closure in the form of an email from the boy who had been the center of her affection for six years. Simply put, he apologized for leading her on, but there was someone else, a new girl in his life. The boy who once made Destiny feel so very special now left her feeling unwanted and second best. “But, that vulnerable state I was in made me focus on God more than ever before. I was so hurt, but I grew through that. I prayed that I was going to give the heartbreak over to God. I was done being hurt.”

Destiny made a change. She got involved in non-profit organizations and became a leader for many young girls, growing as an independent woman. Slowly, she began to learn that her self-image wasn’t supposed to be based in how much a boy desired her.

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But, just as we reach our peak, we are met with another challenge. Five mouths ago and two months after this epiphany, Destiny’s life was struck by tragedy. One of her younger brothers passed away suddenly. “My whole perspective changed. Suddenly, it didn’t matter how cool I was or what anyone else thought about me. I went from being so materialistic to none of it mattering at all. I just wanted to be in heaven with my brother. How was I supposed to survive with him not here?” She struggled to cling to her faith but fell into a depression, looking for affirmation in guys rather than in herself. “I felt the pressure, and it’s a battle not to give in.” Her world was rocked, and the battle with low self-esteem she thought she had won still rages on. After a lifetime of struggling with how she values herself, Destiny is still learning and growing through her self-consciousness. No, there isn’t a happily ever after yet.

Korina’s Story Korina Moore grew up in a Christian home, no stranger to church camps or conviction. As most kids in the South can attest to, there was always a standard set for the typical Christian teen. It was the shiny, positive group of kids always sporting a t-shirt with an inspirational psalm on the front, a product of the culture and not the faith. But, what happens when the happy Christian kid isn’t so perfect or happy? “I became sexually active really early when I was fourteen because of a bad relationship. I wasn’t old enough to understand the shame that came with what I was going through. I was that person that people looked up to as a Christian. People would ask me questions about God, and I felt so cool.”

Of course, these same peers didn’t see the struggle behind the exterior. She slowly began to doubt her faith. Korina grew up with a natural tendency toward curiosity, constantly asking questions. “I was trying to understand who God was, wondering why I believed what I believed. I had questions, and no one had answers. I felt shameful for my curiosity, and so I hid my doubt.”

As the internal battle went on, Korina fell deeper into an emotionally manipulative relationship. Her boyfriend began cheating on her, and he began abusing drugs and alcohol.

“I can’t put into words how devastatingly dark it became. I have always been a confident person, but I’ve never been as insecure as I was when I was with him. I didn’t realize what was happening in my head. Every little thing about my physical appearance had to be perfect so he would love me. My self-worth came from him.”

Meanwhile, Korina began to look into a missions school in Africa. Though she did not have strong faith, she had a strong desire to escape her troubles. She applied on a whim and was accepted, to her astonishment. When she told her boyfriend, he cried. It was the end of the relationship; he knew it but Korina didn’t. God had a bigger plan. When she arrived at the school, Korina was broken and filled with shame. Her heart was hard and guarded against everyone around her. But, God began to work on her, peeling away the layers of insecurity and guilt. She started to soften and see herself as she truly was: a beautiful daughter of God. She left the school a new person. She never saw the boy again, and her life slowly fell into place. She found support in her friends and grew stronger in her relationship with God.

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Korina was healing, but her story hasn’t ended. “I haven’t overcome my biggest obstacle, trichotillomania. It is an anxiety disorder in which I pluck my facial hair out. I draw on my eyebrows and wear fake eyelashes. I was always bullied in high school, and I think a lot of the reasoning behind my abusive relationship was because he said he loved me despite my disorder. I needed to know that I was still beautiful, and he made me feel beautiful. I still suffer from my condition, but I am learning my identity in God.” Korina continues to grow, seeking out God’s love as her healing, but she is not done growing.

My Story I remember the first time it dawned on me that I was fat. I was six years old, sitting in the living room of my friend’s house. Her slender little leg lay beside mine, dimpled and pudgy. “Wow, your leg is a lot bigger than mine.” She was just a little girl and had no notion of what her words meant; neither did I, really. At six years old, I didn’t really understand it myself. But there was some nagging feeling in the back of my head that said, “Your body is wrong.”

From that point onward, I embarked on a painful journey of self-consciousness, eating disorders, and depression. Can you imagine it: A six-year-old staring at her tummy, sucking in with all her might and crying because she was bigger than all of the other girls. Children should be worrying about what color popsicle they want, not how many calories it has.

It took 20 years of self-loathing for me to look at myself in the mirror and simply say, “I am beautiful.” After a lifetime of hurt, the road to recovery was hard, and I couldn’t do it on my own. At the height of my eating disorder, I had absolutely no hope of recovery. In fact, I didn’t really want to recover. I was miserable and angry at the world for making me hate myself. I couldn’t see anything good about myself.

Then, I made a new friend. Sophomore year of college, I was pretty isolated. When you suffer from an eating disorder, you tend to push people away. You begin to fear social gatherings because that usually means eating. It means that someone might notice your frequent trips to the bathroom or your obsession with counting calories.

Her name was Lauren. She was quirky and friendly and she was a Christian. Growing up in the Bible Belt, Christianity is more of a social club than a spiritual experience. Being a Christian here doesn’t necessarily mean you are a Christlike person. For the most part, the only Christians I had met were the very same people who bullied me in high school.

Lauren, however, was different. She loved me like a sister,

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even if I couldn’t love myself. I’d never had a best friend before her. I may not have believed in the same things as her, but she made me want to.

On late night coffee runs, we would talk about God. I’d ask questions, and she would give me compassionate answers.

She explained to me how much I was loved, even if I didn’t realize it. She showed me how beautiful I was because I was made beautiful by loving hands. It was all so hard to believe.

Then, on an average Wednesday night, she invited me to listen to her mom give a sermon to a youth group. I tagged along and listened to her story. It was one about redemption.

I particularly remember one quote that stuck out to me, “We are undeserving of God’s love, but He has made us worthy.”

It was one of the most humbling and affirming things I’d ever heard. It summed up everything I had ever felt. Despite my insecurities and all of the bad things I felt about myself, even when I didn’t feel like I deserved to feel happy or loved, I was still worthy of it. I was worthy because God simply chose to make me worthy. He chose to love me, not because I did anything wrong or right but because I am His child. It was the tipping point. In that moment, I started my relationship with God and began my road to recovery. I was worthy of loving myself. My body wasn’t wrong.

A year and a half later, I look back at the growth I’ve experienced. I have a wonderful group of encouraging friends; I lead young women and serve in youth ministry; and I write to women about things I never thought I would overcome. None of this is to say that I am completely better though.

I wish I could say that the thought, “I feel so fat,” never ran through my mind once in a while. I wish I could promise you that, if you prayed hard enough, you could wake up one day fully confident in your body. Unfortunately, none of that would be true.

Of course, none of that is to say that I haven’t grown or learned. Healing comes in increments. Everyday, we get a little better. When you actively seek out a positive body image, you grow. There is no perfect mindset. Body weight fluctuates, styles change, and companies are constantly looking for ways to make women feel lesser. How else would they make money? Loving your body consistently is a challenge. But there is a certain joy in the pursuit of loving oneself. There is no end goal, and so one constantly has something to look forward to. Firmly putting one foot in front of the other requires faith. You cannot see the distant path ahead, and so each future step is enticing, a new experience, a new understanding

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Miraculously though, there is still the first step to loving yourself a little more, the first step to healing. This, once again, brings me back to my original question: What does beauty mean?

Beauty has nothing to do with how you look. It isn’t your weight, your fashion sense, your skin color, or how “on point” your eyebrows might be. Beauty isn’t skin deep. Beauty transcends the skin. It is the confidence and self-love within that makes you beautiful. We are all beautiful, conditioned to believe otherwise by a miserable world that craves company.

Beauty comes from loving yourself and loving others. When we love someone, we don’t see his or her imperfections. Our mothers, sisters, and daughters are all beautiful in our own eyes.

Not because they live up to a societal standard but because we love them for their hearts and minds. So, maybe if we learn to love ourselves, we will begin to see our own beauty.

P H O T O B Y E L L I E N E E LY

courage

Look for the beauty in others, and you will find it in yourself.

No, you’re not going to feel perfectly confident every moment of every day. It is forever a work in progress, but if you look for beauty, you will discover that it exists in everything. Beauty is in the trees. It is in the eyes of joyful children; it is in the lines on worn hands of old men. Beauty is present in the hurt and the triumph of humanity. It survives in the resilience of nature.

Beauty is what pleases the heart, and God does not make ugly things. So, if you can find beauty in all of these places, how can you say that it does not exist in yourself ?

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how to love

BY BETH ORCHARD

P H O T O S B Y R A C H E L LY N P H O T O G R A P H Y

My mother was good at many things. She baked the best meatloaf from scratch. She kept recipe cards from her mother’s Christmas cookies, pies, and tarts—all made with lots of butter and lard (the way they used to do it). She was the kind of person to stop on the side of a road and hand a sandwich to a person holding a ‘Help me, I’m homeless’ sign and invite strangers in for dinner. Her laugh resounded wildly, when she let it escape her lips. She drove an old blue Honda Civic she called her ‘Honda honey,’ which seemed to work only when she needed the engine to turn over after a night out in the cold. My mother was an exemplary seamstress who sewed clothes for my brother and I as little children. When I reached the age of making my own decisions and exerting control over my life was when our relationship fell apart.

One night, she and I had a falling out over whether I could leave the house to attend a school event. I was part of the choir and they were conducting a choral program I was to be part of but she refused to drive me to the school.

“Fine!” I yelled. “I will call my friend’s parents to come get me.” I stomped my foot frustratedly in anticipation of her response.

“You are not going to that program.” She crossed her arms and glared at me.

“Why not? It is required for us to participate. I’m in the choir. I have to be there. Everyone is going to be there!” I stood firmly planted in my spot, glaring back at her with arms crossed.

“The weather is atrocious. It’s freezing cold, the dead of winter. I am not taking you and you are not going out in this weather.” She continued to persist in what I felt was a nonsensical argument.

“I am already dressed. I am going to call my friend and I am going to this concert. Whether you go or not. It is just across town. If the weather was bad enough they would have canceled.”

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“If you leave this house,” my mother insisted, “I will lock you out and you will not get back in.”

I attended the concert as planned. My mother backed down and left the door open for me upon my return. We argued about it for weeks after but I knew in my heart it was the right thing to do. This argument played out in every decision I ever tried to make as a teenager growing up in my mother’s house. She insisted she was right and I was wrong. She told me what to do, when to do it, and why what I wanted was wrong. It was her job, it seemed, to keep me from living my life as I saw fit because she could not give up control and cut the umbilical cord she kept wrapped tightly around my neck.

Scenarios like this played out in my mind following the birth of my son, Liam. Born in the deep freeze of a Midwestern winter, we snuggled together in our own little cocoon just the two of us, creating a bond together. I loved to gaze down into my son’s eyes as he slowly drifted asleep.

Only a few days old, I barely processed what just happened to me, to my husband and I, as a family. The ten tiny fingers on his hands and ten tiny toes that made up his feet were so blessedly miniature and perfect. An overwhelming swell of gratitude, love, and adoration built up into my heart as I wondered how he came to be born into this world formed with every bit and piece intact, according to plan.

The first few sleepless days after Liam came home from the hospital were some of the best of my life. Nobody asked me to do anything but feed, change, and rock him. I kept him as close to me as I could and breathed in his scent, loving the small moments of being present with my baby.

Our safe little cocoon was pried open when a call came in at approximately 10:00 o’clock Monday morning, eight days following Liam’s birth. I wanted to let it go to voicemail but I knew it was too important to put off. The test, the waiting. Maybe they were finally over and we would know for sure. In my heart I knew what the doctor was going to say but I did not want to pick up. Strengthening my resolve

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I pressed answer, and waited quietly for the doctor to speak.

The next 24 hours went by in a flurry of activity. Packing, calling, making arrangements. My friend came to the house and held my son while we threw clothes into suitcases and cats into carrying cases. Our lives were just upended for the better part of a month and all I could think about was those precious few moments I had with my son, enjoying our cocoon of mama and baby, cradling and rocking together as we learned a new rhythm.

My son’s diagnosis was never in my birth plan. I knew it was a possibility because I, too, was a carrier for the genetic condition we now both shared. I somehow hoped he would escape dealing with the symptoms, bullying, and unkind words that might come his way. I remembered as a little girl the verbal and emotional abuse from other children.

“Hey, vampire!” they shouted maliciously. “Dracula’s coming!” others exclaimed. It might not have been so bad had my mother been willing to let me participate in group sports or activities with other children. For reasons I still don’t fully understand she did everything in her power to keep me from participating in pretty much anything I asked to be part of, from band to swimming or just neighborhood games. I watched outside as kids ran across each other’s yards, their laughter reverberating off the window pane.

“But why, mom, why can’t I play outside?” I yelled.

“It’s too hot, you’ll overheat! Best to play inside where it’s cool.” She sighed for the last time as she told me to find

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something else to do. This usually meant playing by myself since she seemed to find an excuse when it came to my interaction with other children.

Even though I did not sweat like other kids, I felt normal.

I loved to run, jump, and play like other kids. As I grew older, I realized my mom increasingly did not like to go outside, either. It was not because she could not sweat, however. It seemed she was afraid. Fearful of the world out there, getting in here. To our home, into our lives. The more distance she put between the outside world and us, the better it seemed for her. We lived a very isolated existence.

When I was a teenager I fought relentlessly with my mother to let me go on field trips, to participate in anything that would get me out of the house, just for a day. I saved money from side babysitting jobs and work at the library. I offered to find a ride with a friend or ride my bike across town so she would not have to leave to take me there or pick me up.

I won some battles but lost many more. It seemed she was content to exert total authority and control over my life, the umbilical cord attached subconsciously between us.

As I rocked my son to sleep those many nights he spent in the NICU following his diagnosis, I reflected back on those times with my mother. I wondered if she loved me like I loved my son. Did she hold me in her arms and gaze lovingly into my eyes? The high intensity of emotional, spiritual, and physical disruption I felt caring for Liam those few weeks were draining. It was nothing, however, compared to the realization my own mother essentially abandoned me. She made excuses for why she could not

attend my college graduations, wedding, or Liam’s birth.

All of the memories one might create with a mother were a blank slate in my mind. With nothing to draw from, my new experience of motherhood was a journey I had to forge alone, without her help, advice, or presence.

Traumatic situations have a way of settling into our souls in a way nothing else does. My mother was never able to separate the past from the present and gazed with loving eyes through rose colored glasses at the way things used to be instead of seeing them how they truly were.

“She carried her shame, pain, and blame as baggage nobody but her wanted to claim.”

I gave up many years of my twenties drinking, fighting, searching for the love I was missing. It was not until my son’s birth I realized I grieved the loss of a living mother who gave birth to me like I did my son. Though connected in a common experience of now being mothers, we could not be any more different.

The more I became vulnerable with my son, the more these old wounds of abandonment crept open, seeping with a desire and longing to be seen, heard, and known. My mother was not able to give this to me; yet, I was supposed to give it now to my son. It was not his job to love me; it was mine to love him. I wept long and hard those days spent in NICU with nothing to do but think about and feel the pain of separation from my son as it coincided with the separation I had from my own mother. I believe God only opened doors He wanted me to walk through. In pregnancy, through birth, and now his homecoming, God revealed to me the ways I needed to be present for my son so I could heal the wounds of my past.

I could not help my mother heal her wounds, but I could slowly begin to suture mine, to close a door on a past that no longer served me, so I could be fully present to begin a new, courageous life, as a motherless mother.

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For a while there, I simply forgot how to take care of myself. I forgot how to be my own best friend. I was afraid of what I’d find when forced to look inward for answers.

You should know something about me. I was the most optimistic person I knew, at one point in time. In my early twenties I spent the majority of my time laughing at the worst jokes and hanging out with my chickens in the backyard. Life felt real. “It” felt secure. I was married at age 20, had my whole life planned out, and then boom.

The thing we never plan for happened. Perfect plans fell apart, all confidence was lost—I was alone.

dishes on christmas

BY MELINDA WILDER

P H O T O S B Y K AT E B U R N P H O T O G R A P H Y

I stumbled upon this poem on December 31, 2014. The New Year was hours away and this struck me as something to pay attention to.

SAVE YOURSELF Little girl, stop waiting for someone to come and rescue you You are on your own.

– Josephin August It’s not that I’d been waiting around in my room for someone to save me. In fact, I might have even pushed away a few people who could have helped me in one way or another. Everything I’ve done since finding myself quite “alone” in this world has been part of my attempt to become stronger and to do “it” on my own. It being life.

It being smiling, functioning, laughing, crying, and any other act that would be appropriate for an adult human being. Though the word adult comes in many shapes and sizes and sometimes I do still feel like a little girl. Maybe it’s being the youngest of four daughters.

Perpetual youngest syndrome, perhaps. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that my mom now and then still refers to me endearingly as “little girl” in conversation. “Hey little girl, I was thinking about you today.”

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Divorced, I suddenly felt scared, that nothing could save me, and no one could rescue me. If recovery was possible, the last person capable of such a task was myself. I felt older than I should. Divorce, and all that goes with it, can mess with your head. Trust me, I’ve been there. I realize it sounds almost comical for a 24-year-old to say with a heavy heart, “I’m going through a divorce, and I feel so old.” But I was and I did. And to tell you the truth, it makes a girl feel downright hopeless. I felt ugly, alone, worthless, afraid, and without faith in my future. I searched and searched for any words via the internet that might give me comfort. “Divorce,” “Getting through it,” “Being strong,” were common words in my search engine.

I didn’t find much that catered to me. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Like I said...we don’t plan for divorce.

Now I’m about to turn 26. I’ve had time to grow and learn and become my own self advocate. I know to some I still sound ridiculously young, and to that, I smile and say, “Whew, thanks.” For those who’ve gone through something similar i.e., having your whole entire future (seemingly) ripped from your grasp, let me tell you—it makes age a moot point. I might have advice for someone much older than I am. I might not relate at all with the woman one year younger who just had a baby. I feel that however young I may be, I still have a perspective that’s free, on some level, of naivety, greenness, and youth. The good news is that those parts of me are being filled up with different qualities and I like the change. I’ve had to learn to love myself, inside and out, and to not only forgive myself, but to realize the power of being in charge of my own happiness. It took a long time to like what I saw in the mirror. To not define myself with one silly word.

Then I started thinking, maybe this Josephin August poem is what we should tell little girls every night, as an afterthought, once the fairy tale is read. “The prince on a white horse came and blah blah blah—oh and by the way,

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there were moments where I took a deep breath, a good look around me, was thankful for my family and their loved ones, and accepted where I was in life as nothing but a step on my new road to wherever I was headed. little girl, you are on your own.” I wonder if my life thus far would have turned out differently if that was what I’d been told each day. My parents did encourage and remind me often of my independence and strength, but for some reason the vision of the rescuer/husband was what I focused on.

However, I’ve had visions lately of what I’ll tell my possible future daughters, and it’ll be along the lines of, “You are absolutely on your own because you are capable of it. You are whole, you are strong, you are wonderful.”

When that New Year did finally come along, I was with a good friend of mine at a complete stranger’s house. It was my first New Year’s Eve as a single woman. I hugged my friend as she and I promised each other out loud to make the most of 2015 and all it had to bring. I kept thinking, “YES, a new year this little girl wants to claim as her own.”

I just didn’t know how. I was still shaking in my boots, freezing, and very susceptible to crying on a whim. All I knew was that I would succeed, if it was the last thing I did.

For months, I felt tied to an old version of myself, with the new one just out of reach—and my arms were going numb from the effort of stretching.

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I felt a similar feeling of power-in-my-future yet who-amI-weirdness on Christmas Day when I wound up doing dishes by myself. In the past, I was one of the people at the family Christmas dinner who had someone by my side. For seven years I was never alone, and thus never had the responsibility because as a couple, we were viewed as guests and were involved in conversations with the others.

Not so much this past year. Last Christmas I was the only sister who was single. Now I know how my twin sister Meredith felt all those years. She used to disappear into the kitchen, silently, and spend about an hour on the dishes. I never thought much of this. It just made sense. It was just what she wanted to do. Now I have a little insight. I know now that there are moments when the enormity of being alone grows just a little bit too huge and all of a sudden, you want to be more alone than ever. The tears are silent, the thoughts are loud. I collected the plates and did the dishes—my duty as the single, youngest daughter.

I didn’t mind it too much, though. It’s just that those moments of solitude are never what get photographed and framed. In between the poses and the toasts and the gifts,

Little did I know, I was headed on a life-changing adventure. A job opportunity brought me to Wisconsin, of all places. The Midwest, mind you, is a place I swore up and down I’d never go. I also swore up and down I’d never be divorced. Swore I’d have five kids before I turned 30. Swore I’d never cut my long hair short (only to buzz it all off ).

Let’s just say, I’m mostly done with speaking in absolutes.

I can’t swear I’ll be anywhere or be doing anything at any given time. I can almost promise that I’ll be alone in doing these things for a while, but that ’s open to interpretation.

Moving to a new place by myself has taught me that not only can I be single, but I can also thrive. And to anyone who might be finding themselves on the mend after a breakup of sorts, just know, that some of your best moments are yet to be. The crash and burn moments will shrink in intensity as time goes on. Since I started pushing myself, enjoying my own company, and finally feeling brave enough to know who I am and what I believe in again, I’ve done a lot I never thought I’d have a chance to do or be bold enough for. I’ve performed music on stage, gone on a romantic first date, taken walks with strangers, been

vulnerable, watched multiple movies alone (a hilarious feat, but at one time, a huge deal for me), hiked bluffs, made new friends, basked in a long kiss, had the best hug of my life, skinny dipped, cried beside a river, listened to new stories, had a pink candle in my gluten-free birthday muffin, laughed so hard I fell to the ground, trusted another human being—and let me tell you, every single one of those moments was beautiful. The new relationships that have come my way have been wonderful and significant.

And coming from a time when I wasn’t sure if anyone would notice me or like me without my hilarious other half, this is big. I know that when we build a foundation with someone, our identities get tied up within that. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but when we can’t find where we begin and the other person ends, that’s when there might be an issue. I plan to keep finding myself. I plan to keep growing. No more “I swear I’ll nevers” and no more feeling ugly or hopeless. There’s not enough time to waste on such things.

Every day doesn’t need to go well, either. The thing is to get through it, and then give yourself credit for that—and then allow yourself to smile.

So whether I’m on my own for New Year’s Eve or Christmas day or not—it’ll be okay. I really don’t need rescuing.

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I have carried and delivered four children. Two live with me, and two are mothered by someone else.

her children

BY ERIN MYERS

PHOTOS BY JESSICA PEREZ PHOTOGRAPHY

Looking back, I do not remember what put the thought of surrogacy in my mind. Whatever it was, once the idea was there, it wouldn’t go away. I had my own daughters back to back when I was young—20 and 21—and I felt satisfied with our perfect little family of four. But I am one of those strange people who absolutely loves being pregnant.

Pregnancy for me feels natural. A woman’s body was made to bring life into this world, and when I am pregnant I feel like I am fulfilling my purpose. Carrying life inside you— there is no word for it. I feel beautiful when I’m pregnant, and special. These might sound like selfish reasons, but I am someone with extraordinarily low self-confidence, and pregnancy is a confidence booster for me.

So I began to research what was involved in becoming a gestational surrogate. The more I read, the more I knew I wanted to do it. Through all the reading I did, to see these women who are struggling with infertility and miscarriages broke my heart. Especially when it all came so easily to me, it just didn’t feel fair.

I’m pretty sure at first he did!) and that he would not want to do it. It took a lot of research on my end to show him what a great experience it could be. And ultimately, he has a giving heart (he works in child services, how couldn’t he?) and it became something he wanted to do as well.

After researching at length and filling out insane amounts of paperwork with my agency, I was matched with a couple from France. I was a little worried about the language barrier and the huge distance between us, but we set up a Skype meeting to discuss our expectations for the journey.

The intended father owned his own business and the mother hoped to stay at home with children, though she could not carry her own to term. I was elated to have the opportunity to help someone else realize their dream of having children. I ended the call feeling great about the match, and from there, everything else moved very quickly.

I adore being a mother. My daughters are my world. I want to give them every opportunity in life to be successful and fulfill their dreams. Where I am in my life right now, I am happy with our family of four. As much as I love babies, I also love that my two are older now. We have been out of diapers for years, given away our strollers and car seats.

Having another baby would be a HUGE change, we would essentially be starting over. Having another child is not completely out of the realm of possibility, I am not even 30 yet, but if I don’t have more of my own, I am okay with that.

I am surrounded by friends having babies, and I’m happy to play with theirs. Then, I get to give them back and sleep through the night.

I really don’t remember how it was that the idea came to me, it was so long ago. But it was something I thought that I could do, it was not a hard decision for me to make.

Because I’d be going into the pregnancy knowing that the baby was not genetically related to me at all, and knowing that I would be giving the baby to its parents once it was born. I figured because my two prior pregnancies were so easy and I was young and healthy that it was definitely a possibility. As long as my husband was on board, it never felt like a dream that could not be fulfilled.

When I mentioned to Joey that surrogacy was something I wanted to do, I was nervous. While it was something that I had been thinking about for a while, it was a new subject to my husband. I was afraid he would think I was crazy (and

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I had to undergo tons of testing, both physical and psychological. There were batteries of tests to be sure I was becoming a surrogate for the right reasons, and even more tests to ensure that my body was in perfect condition for caring for a baby. We had to fly to New Jersey from our home in Florida in order to complete our IVF preparations and procedure.

Soon after all the testing, the intended parents (IPs) flew to the United States for the first time so that we could meet. Through the use of the agency’s translator, we were able to get to know one another and begin planning for our joint dream. It made everything feel so real to see them in person, and then it was time for the work to begin.

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My IPs were using an egg donor due to the mother’s significant medical complications, so the two of us had to begin coordinating our cycles. I had to start taking Lupron, which turned off my own hormone production and essentially caused me to go into menopause. I was awake all the time with insomnia, but otherwise it wasn’t that bad. Joey learned how to give me the injections in my belly with a ½-inch needle every day, which then burned for about 90 minutes.

Two weeks later, I started on estrogen with a 1½-inch needle in the butt. Yep. My husband had to shoot me in the butt twice a week. This continued for about two months when finally in May, we flew back to New Jersey for the embryo transfer. The IPs were in attendance for this procedure, and the mother held my hand throughout the entire thing. It was certainly different than the other two times I’d gotten pregnant! Still, I was glad we were able to have the experience together and that I was able to be a part of something so hugely significant in her life.

The work of getting pregnant was pretty intense, so when it finally happened, I was absolutely ecstatic. When you work so hard for so long to do something that you want, when it actually happens, it is wonderful. It didn’t feel real, because the experience was so different than my previous pregnancies. When I took the first home pregnancy test, and saw the faint positive, I cried. I must have been a sight to see! I was so excited to take the test, that I did it on my lunch break at a McDonald’s near my work! I was so happy both for my IPs, but also that I wouldn’t have to start the IVF process over! The injections, while manageable, were not my favorite part of the whole experience.

It was very different carrying someone else’s children versus carrying my own. For me, the best way that I can describe it is like babysitting. I felt affection for the lives inside of me,

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HEART 49

just like when I am watching a close friend’s child. I am concerned for their wellbeing, I have fun playing with them but ultimately I give them back to their parents when the time comes. I was able to keep myself somewhat disconnected emotionally. And while I was not sure, ultimately, how I would react, I was confident that I had a wonderful support system with my husband and my family, that I would be okay.

By the time we got to delivery day I was—as I believe most women are by eight months— pretty uncomfortable and over being pregnant. The 36 hours of Pitocin leading up to labor actually hitting were pretty frustrating. I was getting angry at my body for not going into labor, not necessarily looking at the fact that I was only 37 weeks along. Just like at any birth, there was the anxiety of the unknown. But emotionally, we were all very excited!

Once the babies were born, I did not see them for almost 24 hours. That was probably the scariest part for me—actually seeing the babies for the first time—since I didn’t know how I’d feel or react. But I surprised even myself ! There was no maternal love. It was just as if my sister had just had twins, not me. I was lucky that I was able to spend a lot of time with the babies, and my IPs for two weeks after the delivery. Saying goodbye to them was not easy. And it’s hard to explain the range of emotions I felt. Hormones, for one, played a huge part. Right at that point was when my hormones crashed, I think. The day they left, we went out to dinner and I cried through most of the meal. I would say, in a way, I mourned them leaving. But it wasn’t devastating. It may be redundant to keep saying, but it was as if a family member—and a huge part of your life—moved away. I knew it wasn’t goodbye forever, just a “see you later.” And after allowing myself to feel sad for a day or two, life went back to normal and we all moved on. The hardest part for me was, after the fact, the feeling that I no longer had a “purpose.” When you focus so much of your time and energy on one amazing thing, and then suddenly it’s just over—there was (and still is) a feeling of “what do I do next?”

I miss being pregnant. I miss the parents. I love getting pictures every week or two, and see how much the babies are growing. But no, I do not feel like I want to be more involved in their lives. I believe that they will stay in touch, and maybe in a couple years we will be able to travel to visit them. But it isn’t the same, to me, as if it were my own babies I gave up for adoption.

I never had any doubts in my decision. Even knowing the risks (pregnancy is always risky), I wanted to carry more children and help make a family that otherwise would not exist. My body is different, my belly was stretched more carrying the twins than with either of my own. But when I see the looser skin and stretch marks, I just feel proud of myself. When I see the pictures of the growing babies, it is as if I am watching a niece and nephew grow up from a distance, and I absolutely love it.

I know I made the right choice because I know that there are two lives out there that would not exist if it weren’t for me. My daughters reacted to the whole experience as if it were completely normal, and I believe that they will grow up with bigger, more giving and loving hearts because of it.

I have realized how strong I am. I wanted to do something, I pursued it, and I did it. It was not easy, took a lot of time and energy and frustration. It felt like an uphill battle to get to the point where I could even start the IVF process. As someone who is terrified of needles, and avoids doctors at all costs, I made it through roughly three months of weekly blood draws and daily injections. I was able to carry healthy twins to 37 weeks, and deliver them vaginally, without an epidural. And while all that was going on, I was still working full-time and raising two daughters of my own. It was probably one of the hardest, but most incredible, things I’ve ever done. I am so proud of myself. In my heart, I know this was what I was meant to do with my life, and I truly cannot wait to do it again.

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everything and nothing

BY LAUREN PENNA

PHOTOS BY THE BRAUNS

My husband picked me up at the international terminal. He had tried to be romantic, running to me to sweep me off of my feet. I, in my jet-lagged state, screwed it up by walking right past him. It wasn’t until Kendell pointed him out that I saw him.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t see you.”

He hugged me.

“I missed you so much,” he said.

I hugged him back. I wasn’t emotional like I’d thought I’d be. I imagined seeing him for the first time in two weeks (and what felt like an eternity) and just losing my shit. But I didn’t. At least not yet.

“We’ve got to go,” he said. Our ride had been waiting for us for quite some time, a fact that I contribute to the conveyor belt that had hidden my luggage from me for an hour. Brad had returned from Seattle the same day, mere hours before I did so he arranged for a friend to pick us up. We walked outside the terminal to people on cell phones, rushing and pushing, yelling and arguing. I was instantly overwhelmed, and I suppose it makes sense for a normal Monday in Los Angeles, but in the moment, it was terrifying.

Our friend picked us up and I sat in the front seat, which happened to be a terrible mistake. The car took off, dramatic stops and goes, and I cried. My mind was still in Jinja; I wasn’t ready to be American again.

— Two weeks before, Brad uneventfully dropped me off at the airport. He kissed me, then got back in his car and drove away, trying to beat rush hour traffic (which was nearly impossible). I was suddenly emotional. But not the type of emotional I had expected to feel. Not the eagerness of doing something extraordinary, no excitement to meet new people. Sincere dread, regret. I’d always loved the idea of being independent, but it suddenly occurred to me that I might have loved the idea of it more than in practice because as soon as I set foot through the automatic glass doors and into the line to pick up my boarding pass, I panicked. This is real. There is no turning around. There is only moving forward.

And move forward I would, onto an airplane for 16 hours to Dubai, then another airplane six hours to Entebbe, then finally a van four hours to Jinja where I would spend the next eight days soaking in everything I could soak, and hopefully come home to write something beautiful. It was a tall order. And I am not that tall.

“Make sure you send me a photo of you and Kendell when she gets there. You know, so we know she’s actually real,” Brad texted. He has a knack for telling jokes when I’m particularly nervous.

It ’s something I both love and hate. He hadn’t worried a bit the entire four months I planned the trip. Or at least, he hadn’t shown it; another annoyingly smart talent he has. He usually leaves the worrying up to me, choosing to stay ridiculously calm in any circumstance even if he should be truly seething with frustration and panic. Just to soothe my anxiety.

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“I don’t think people catfish someone by going on an artist ’s trip to Uganda,” I wrote back. I wanted him to worry, or at least show some anxiety. I wanted to know that what I was doing took courage. Because it did, right?

I sat at a Starbucks that served alcohol and drank tea instead, wondering if Kendell would judge me for having a glass of wine when we met. I put far too much honey in my tea and swallowed a Malaria pill. The tea made my mouth taste sour. It wasn’t the way I wanted to begin a 16-hour flight. It wasn’t the way I wanted to begin a two-week trip without contact with anyone I knew.

Kendell showed up and turned out to not be a catfishing axe murderer, but rather a mother who had never left her son for this long. She’d lost it the way I thought I would lose it when she said goodbye to her son. She sat down next to me.

“This is crazy, right?” She said.

“What?”

“We’re going to Uganda with people we’ve only met online.”

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We’d applied and been accepted to a team of artists traveling to Jinja, Uganda, with The Archibald Project, a non-profit that strives to promote orphan care and prevention through media. It was a bit crazy, but mostly, I thought, it was good. Not too much later, we boarded our flight and managed to move our seats next to each other.

And then we took off.

I’ve always hated flying. I know that ’s a common thing to say, but it’s true. That fear alone was enough to cause me to doubt going on the trip at all. Well, I argued with myself, it’s a day and a half of travel, so three days out of it all that I’ll merely be traveling, flying, in an airplane that is surely going to be the tiniest percentage of airplanes that go down in the middle of the ocean, zero survivors, of course. I tried practicing what a therapist once told me: “Imagine, when it’s all over with, how peaceful and accomplished you’ll feel.” But no one feels accomplished when they’ve died in an airplane accident.

Maybe that makes me a pessimist, a cynic. Well, that tends to get the best of me in an uncomfortable airplane seat.

But my cynicism was interrupted in the middle of our first flight when I sprinted to the bathroom and vomited everything in me. I sat back down next to Kendell.

“Do you have any mints?”

“Did you just get sick?” Her motherly instincts were so comforting that I nearly asked her to pull my hair back for me and rub my back. I reminded myself that we met 10 hours before. And that is creepy.

“Yeah, I did.”

“I think I have an extra toothbrush in my backpack if you want to use it.”

“Oh, right. I have one in my backpack,” I said. I was shaking as I brushed my teeth. If this was what this trip was going to be like, I’d rather turn around now. Turns out you can’t turn an airplane around. We landed in Dubai and Kendell and I both agreed to be antisocial by foregoing an outing with our new team, so we slept and savored the last hot shower we’d have for a few weeks. I took another Malaria pill, and also threw up again.

By the time we’d finally arrived in Uganda, I was sick and lonely and angry that Brad hadn’t been ready at his phone, anxious to hear from me. Of course, it could have had nothing to do with the fact that he was over 12 hours apart from me, living his own life of work and regular life. No, no. I was sure he was ignoring my texts. It was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. But when you feel sick in a foreign country

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that doesn’t have toilets, you tend to be a little ridiculous.

I’d forgotten that in the time between now and my last trip to Africa.

We drove through Uganda in a van and I let the humid air wash over my face. I tried to remember how much I loved this continent, tried to forget how awful I felt. The last time I was here, it was Tanzania, and I was with Mom who had worked out all of the details for me. I was a stranger in a strange land, but at least she was too. Now, it was just me in a group of people I didn’t know—a zookeeper, a high school student, a married couple of stellar wedding photographers, a textile designer, the owners of The Archibald Project who brought us all together, and Kendell, and me. I ate a bit of chapatti and allowed myself to be silent even though these new people were asking a million questions, quickly trying to get to know each other. My old boss came into mind. He said, “When placed into a situation in which you must be in close proximity with strangers, there will be a false sense of intimacy. Don’t be tricked by it. Be who you are.” I’d always thought his idea was bogus, but here, it made a bit of sense. I had no idea who these people were, but I felt, all at once, surprisingly, this sense of peace wash over me. All I had to do was be who I was, who I am. Why did I travel all this way, go through all of this misery, to be here? Why on earth would I do this? The answer, unclear, but also too clear, was always love. At least, that’s what I was attempting to convince myself of. I watched as we rushed past trees, driving through varying landscapes from farming fields to forests to vast plains, and then The Nile. My eyes could hardly stay open and I sighed because it was the first time that I realized, this is beautiful.

We were all there for one reason: to tell a story. And I had no idea what that story would be. But, then again, I never really allowed myself to have an idea, telling myself that I would allow it to reveal itself when I was there.

Premeditations are deadly. Or they can be. Or something like that. It was nothing like I expected, though I only had two weeks in Tanzania to compare it to, which is completely different in a lot of ways. Jinja was a town with strange convenience stores that carried terrible replicas of American candy and cheap toys that barely resembled Barbie dolls.

There were bodas, small motorcycle taxis, that carried far too heavy of loads all around town, and it was so common to take them that no one was afraid of falling off when they swerved around a pot hole uncovered by the frequent hot thunderstorms that rolled in and without warning or pause.

It was loud, but also so consistent that the noise became comforting and when there was absence of raucous, it felt unsettling. Men took their cows on walks during the middle of the day every day and the goats solicited the side of the

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streets more than solicitors in Vegas. Cars drove when and where they pleased, creating their own lanes and driving rules, parking wherever they saw fit. There were restaurants and cafes with the most potent, most deliciously fresh food I’d had in quite some time. To say that I fell in love with Jinja would be an incredible understatement.

After a day of getting to know each other with a boat ride on The Nile and dinner in Jinja, we dove into it. We spent a great deal of time with Sole Hope learning about jiggers, these little bugs that burrow into exposed skin and lay eggs, which then multiply and rot and cause terrible complications and sometimes death. They’re awful little things. They come with a multitude of problems and stigmas and, just really, they don’t have to be a problem, but they are. Dru Collie, the co-owner of Sole Hope, talked about it the first day we were at their outreach house. He talked about it with such ease, in such a matter of fact way.

Talked about his wife and how amazing she is for wanting to do something about something no one wanted to do anything about. I wondered if I would ever be that way.

Then I wondered how anyone could be that way. And before I knew it, I was thinking about how Brad is that way, about how he abandons judgment and preconceived ideas about how things should be, about how he accepts people for who they are and then meets their needs. And then I started to miss him terribly.

“It’s amazing,” Brad had said on our drive to the airport.

“What is?”

“Jiggers. I was reading about them. They’re like the modern day leprosy.” We had once looked into going to work and live in a leprosy colony in India. It terrified me, but it invigorated him. He felt it was his job to do something no one wanted to do. Just like Dru and Asher Collie. Just like Sole Hope. Unlike me. I have always been afraid of the things I was told to be afraid of. I cried at a junior high church camp when my parents left for God’s sake. My doubt grew. And grew. And grew. And when they said we would help process the new people coming into the clinic later that day, I nearly panicked. But these are the people with the bad jigger cases. It might be graphic. I might feel something unpleasant. Yes, true. Yes, absolutely.

And I did.

I was sorting through the donated clothes in a little room Sole Hope had created to house the clothing the new patients received upon arrival. The new group of patients, brought in by a social worker, sat on the floor of the patio outside. They were about to take a shower, but first, they

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received a new pair of clothes. Long skirts and a shirt for the women and girls, pants and a shirt for the men and boys. It was a difficult task, trying to guess what size they were. I grabbed a skirt and shirt for an older woman and walked outside to hand it to her.

“Here you go,” I said. She took it, barely looking me in the eye. I smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back. I walked back in the room, slightly confused. But then again, I don’t know what I was expecting. Moses, one of the Sole Hope staff members, came over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. He pointed to the woman outside.

“She wants to shake your hand,” he said.

I looked at her hands. She had jiggers on them. I have to admit, I was ignorant. If I shook her hand, would I get them too? I was embarrassed I was even thinking about it.

I couldn’t stop thinking about leprosy as I stepped onto the porch and in the five seconds it took me to walk from the clothing closet to the woman on the porch, I had decided to ignore fear. Her hand was dry and her grip was weak. I held onto it with both of my hands and I felt where the jiggers were. They felt like calluses, like a clump of dead skin. They felt, surprisingly, normal.

“We want to challenge you,” Whitney, the co-owner of The Archibald Project, said over breakfast the next day in our guesthouse. “Take the time to observe and photograph, preparing your stories for when you go home, but also, take a moment to be present. Experience and challenge yourself to do what you wouldn’t normally do.”

I was afraid she would say something like that. Because sitting back and experiencing is safe for me. Watching, learning, listening, that’s comfortable. Being there, right down in it where there was blood and jiggers and things that were unpleasant. No, thank you.

We arrived at Sole Hope for the severe jigger clinic and all of the older women were seated together at the picnic table laughing. Some of us walked up to them.

“Can we take pictures of them?” Whitney asked. They smiled and laughed and let us claim them as our grandmothers.

There was another older woman there that had jiggers in her hands. She was loud and she spoke to us in Lugandan as if we understood her perfectly. The other ladies laughed at her, or with her, or something. I hoped she was the town gossip, or maybe the town clown, or maybe the lady who is everyone’s grandmother. Later, I learned none of them knew each other. I had to laugh. Everyone had to laugh.

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We attempted their language and they laughed at us. They talked to us as if we understood and we spoke to them in English. We all laughed. Together. Because what else can you do?

I had imagined that there would be grand gestures that were obviously love. I imagined they’d jump out at me.

Write about this! This is the moment that will change your life! But the thing about Uganda is that everything is simple (sometimes to a fault), gestures and love included.

For the entire duration of the jigger removal process, I held a woman’s hand and rubbed her back. My anxiety started to take over. I should be taking photos. I should be writing this down. I should be watching closely, soaking in all of the details so I can write about them later. But as she gripped me tighter and tighter, enduring a process I can only compare to getting my feet tattooed (and even that is nowhere near the agony she endured), I had nowhere else to be. Maybe my story would suffer details. Maybe I had no idea how the actual process was. But, in that moment, I wasn’t a writer, wasn’t a wife, wasn’t an American. I was just there.

power right in the middle of text conversation I was having with Brad and I was frustrated. Frustrated because everyone was asleep. Frustrated that it seemed everyone in the team had connected to something or someone. Frustrated that everyone had an idea of what they wanted to do with what they’d been experiencing. Some people focused on the shoes Sole Hope gives out, some people focused on family while I still doubted myself and felt that I was neither gaining nor giving anything important. So I cried. A lot. Then I grabbed my journal and started writing, furiously. I must have written fifteen pages. When I couldn’t write anymore, I laid there and stared into the darkness at what I assumed was my mosquito net, listening to the pounding of the rain on the roof. I breathed. In. Out. In. Out. Quickly at first, and then slower and slower. There was a gigantic boom of thunder and what would normally terrify me made me quiet. I felt it resonate throughout my body. I was calm.

And I felt, for some unexplainable reason, that it was okay, that I was okay, that doing nothing was actually everything and that even if I left here without a definitive story, the experiences I left with were just enough, because my presence, as it turns out, is enough.

On one of our last days, we visited a village school and washed children’s feet. As we were about to get into the van to leave, a girl with a bright white smile walked up to me.

“I want to be your friend,” she said.

She had perfect English.

“I’d like to be your friend too,” I told her. “What do you like to do for fun?”

“I like to sing,” she said.

The loneliness I felt in the night was stifling. I hadn’t spent more than two nights alone in four years. Maybe that’s pathetic. Two weeks away wasn’t really that bad, was it? Or maybe it was. The moments I had to text Brad were few and far between, and even then, he was busy at a conference in Seattle. The rain revived me and I wrote by cell phone light when the power went out. It seemed to me that I hadn’t done anything significant. The rest of the team had photos to show for. They had stories forming of people they met.

I had hand holding and eye contact and countless nights of insomnia, stressing about all of the diseases I was sure to have because I had chosen to stop taking my medication.

“Will you sing for me?” She smiled. Then she nodded. And before I knew it, there were a hundred children around me, singing a song about what I think was a welcome into their village. They kept going and I didn’t want it to stop. The rest of the team was already in the van and I needed to get in. I started pushing through the singing crowd and the girl held my hand.

“You must always remember to remember me,” she said.

I hugged her.

“I won’t forget,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Masika Christine.” I wrote it down in my phone. Then I jumped into the back of the van and drove away.

There was one night, somewhere in the middle of the trip when I couldn’t sleep. A thunderstorm took out all of the

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a change in plans

BY SUZIE MAHON

PHOTOS BY JULES PHOTO & DESIGN

Ethan was supposed to be our easy baby. After lots of difficulty and health concerns with our daughter, Isla, we were looking forward to the lightness that seems to accompany other women’s pregnancies. I guess at this point you already know; though the plans for Ethan were to be easy, that ’s not what happened.

Our doctor discovered a rare antigen in my body that caused the baby to be anemic, so we stepped up our visits and entered the high-risk category once again. We traveled two hours away each week to measure the blood flow in Ethan’s brain. Though the outcome was positive for most of the visits, our 28-week visit indicated that the baby would need a blood transfusion. It was hard, but we got through it.

to put me under were being rushed.

The last thing I remember is the sweet touch of a nurse holding my hand.

I jolted awake, realizing slowly that I was no longer pregnant.

“Where is my baby?

Where is Nick?

What ’s happening?!”

I was in absolute disbelief.

And then just six weeks later, he needed another one.

We had a few days to prepare for the trip, which gave me time to get a sitter for Isla, triple-check our hospital bags, stash cash around the house for groceries, and even have my hair and toes done. I figured I deserved a little treat for what I was about to endure. Looking back now, I must have had the famed mother’s intuition about the days to come—I somehow knew I needed to be prepared for the worst.

Of course, the plan was that the procedure would go smoothly, and we’d head back home just like the time before, but since we couldn’t be sure, the room was filled with medical staff. Over 20, to be exact, each with a job in mind in the event things weren’t as smooth as we’d hoped.

Three neonatologists, 20 nurses, our specialist—all at the ready, just in case.

I will never forget the smell of the room or the beeping of the monitors.

Just as we were preparing to finish up, the air in the room grew thick. Beeps became more blaring and frequent; the needle touched the fetal artery, just barely, and caused Ethan’s heart rate to plummet.

Suddenly my belly was being forcefully shaken. “Beat faster!” the doctor was yelling. The nurses waited on tip toes for orders.

I won’t soon forget the room swirling around me, feeling so lost and helpless, everyone concentrating on their jobs, no one there to tell me what was happening.

My husband Nick is always the strongest. He is the calm, reassuring one. And when I looked at him to see watery, panic stricken eyes, I was more unsure than ever.

They ripped him out of the room—screaming that he had to go—sterile equipment was being ripped open and meds

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Moving to the labor and delivery floor was a waiting game.

Family started to arrive and though it felt wrong to be angry, I didn’t want to see them. I wanted to see Ethan.

I wanted everything to be OK. I wanted this not to be happening.

Six long hours went by and they told me that to see Ethan, I had to be able to walk and get to a wheelchair.

My legs were like lead and the pain was excruciating, but the minute they cleared me to try, I fought back tears and made my way to the NICU. Our precious baby was on oxygen, and his skin was so sensitive that we only held him for a brief minute. It would be two full weeks before we were allowed to hold him again.

His lungs and heart were compromised, but he fought.

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Things could have gone a different way, but Ethan was strong, and he kept pushing.

Each day the doctors would circle by. We’d shuffle out to the sliding glass doors to meet them, smiling and nodding, believing that whatever they said must have been the best thing. Not much can prepare you for being your child’s medical advocate, and those first weeks were nothing but us doing our best to survive. We had to trust that the doctors knew what they were doing. So we went along with the new orders, and hoped so hard our baby would survive.

We were not prepared, either, to care for one critically ill child while having a perfectly well child just outside the hospital doors. Isla was not allowed to be with us at the hospital—a mixture of germs and uncertainties prevented it—and I constantly felt torn between the two of them. If we left Ethan for an afternoon to take Isla to the zoo, I was sick with guilt, practically pacing until we could return to the hospital. But once back in our tiny room, I missed her, and worried she would never recover from being so isolated from the things she once knew.

Throughout everything, Isla remained a constant source of light for me—an indication that things would be alright. She has such a gift for lifting spirits, even now. She far exceeded the expectations we had of her in those tough days. This was never what we wanted for her, but she surprised us with her resiliency.

Thirty days went by. And yes we came home and yes we are happy now, but thirty days felt long. Thirty days of feeling like a failure because I couldn’t care for either of my children in the way they each needed. Thirty days of feeling guilty for not appreciating the help we received as much as I should have, though it was so hard to smile about things in those days.

I feel like I lost something when our plans changed so drastically. But like every mom does, I push through. I walk through the pain I feel about nearly losing my son. I am sick with dread when his birthday approaches because as wonderful as he is, the day he came was the most terrifying of my life. I smile all day and cry at night.

I think that’s the craziest thing about trauma—the experiences don’t really end. They linger.

They jump in front of you when you least expect it. Over time they get easier, but I don’t think they ever go away. As I write this through tears I hope one day to have the lights dim on this hardship so that I can stop, take a deep breath, smile, and move on. But until then I just remember: we are who we are because of where we have been.

I ask myself a lot, would I change this? My gut reaction is almost always yes, but I wonder if Ethan was born under different circumstances, would he still be the same fiery, amazing child?

Would I look at Nick with a love swelling in my heart so big it sometimes makes me ache?

Would I be the same woman I am now?

I guess those are answers I’ll never have.

Yes, plans change. Yes, it is hard and it is heartbreaking. But good can arise from bad. Strength can come from weakness. Love can grow out of fear.

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Nick, I know you were so scared that day.

If we could go back I would kiss you and tell you we will be OK. Maybe not right now, or in the coming weeks, but we will be OK. Through all of this, you never missed a doctor appointment. You didn’t work a single day that Ethan was in the hospital. You never stopped making sure I had everything I needed.

Thank you for always bending over backward for Isla and Ethan and for me. I know you sometimes feel like you could be doing more, but you are enough plus some. You give 130 percent all of the time and I couldn’t ask for a more supportive or better husband.

To my nurse: I remember everyone else running furiously about. I remember the doctor yelling that Nick had to get out. Everything was a blur and I was so so scared. I don’t know what your job was, but you came right over and grabbed my hand. You whispered that everything would be alright and you didn’t let me go. I felt indescribably safe with you there.

I remember looking for you in the weeks after that day, with big plans of what I’d say when I saw you, but I chickened out when we met face to face. I sheepishly smiled, looked at the floor, and thanked you, but that wasn’t enough.

I wish I had told you how much I appreciated you. What you did for me was lifechanging beyond what words can say. I think thank-you isn’t enough sometimes and this is def initely one of those. Other people had more important things to do—assisting the doctor, caring for the baby—but you were there for me when I needed someone to be.

It is people like you that keep the world going. It is people like you who remind us how important it is to be kind. I strive every day to teach values like yours to my children.

Sweet Isla, You were my greatest comfort during this hard time.

You were such a happy baby; just nine months old when we found out we were expecting Ethan. My love for you kept me sane.

I worked hard to keep my anxiety away from you, keeping you in school while we traveled for doctor’s appointments out of state, and doing our best to make sure you weren’t impacted by what was happening.

Toward the end of the pregnancy, you had to come with us to an appointment. We weren’t sure how long we’d be gone and we didn’t want you to be without us for too long. It was a good checkup so we returned home and were playing together on the floor. You grabbed a Wii remote and began rubbing it on my belly, looking up at the TV every so often, and telling me I was OK. I will never forget you playing doctor and the comfort you gave me at that time.

I believed in that moment that no matter what, everything would be OK. You have always had the gift of taking my pain away, Isla.

I will always come back to this moment.

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talk until you find the truth

S I X R E A S O N S Y O U S H O U L D T RY T H E R A P Y

Many believe that seeing a therapist is something people with gigantic, glaring problems do.

But did you know that seeing a licensed counselor or therapist can impact you in positive ways regardless of how much “drama” surrounds your life? We’ve tried it, and think there’s something for everyone. Here are six reasons we think everyone should try going to therapy:

1. You need to get it all out

4. To remind yourself of things you already knew

In talking to a therapist, you’re able to say things you’d have a hard time speaking about with anyone else. Even if it ’s hard to do, you’ll feel so much relief after getting things off your chest. And bonus point: you’re not offending, burdening, or freaking anyone out by talking to a therapist.

You talk, they listen, no judgments made.

5. To work on the best version of you

The pace of life is fast, and it ’s hard to stop and admit that we’re not feeling 100 percent. But when you bottle things up, pretend you’re doing fine, and avoid having hard conversations, things are bound to burst eventually.

2. To gain some perspective

P H O T O B Y R A C H E L LY N P H O T O G R A P H Y

growth

Talking things through with an unbiased person is a way for you to see the situation you’re in from another side. A therapist is neither emotional about nor involved in your life, and can help you wade through the muck to find what it is you’re looking for. Hearing from a friend or family member that you’re right, or from a significant other that you’re wrong, isn’t always the most helpful. You need someone with an outside perspective to help you see both sides of the coin.

3. Your mom needs a break

There is only so much droning on about one thing or another that a mom/sister/husband can handle. Not only can they not solve every problem for you, but they also can’t analyze the situation without their own feelings getting in the way. Of course it ’s good to have people you know and trust readily available, but when things get really tough, it’s time to call in a professional.

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You are great. You are worthy. You are not crazy—(maybe just a little). You aren’t defined by the things that have happened. Life brings bad times, but that doesn’t mean life is altogether bad. Talking with a professional about the trials you’re facing will help you to see your way back to the truth.

Describing your feelings to someone who will guide you through the process can help get you where you want to be. When you understand the connections of events and the reasons behind the way you react the way you do, you end up so much more aware of yourself. Being mindful and understanding yourself is the quickest way back to happiness, and a therapist will help you get there.

6. You deserve an hour

Whether you are a busy mom, a single lady, or a new wifey—it ’s safe to say you could probably use an hour to yourself. Within that time, you aren’t responsible for anyone or anything else. The time you spend in that office is yours alone. You can talk, you can cry, you can stare at the ceiling and think without interruption. Allowing yourself the time to focus inward is not only valuable, but hugely important to feeling content and fulfilled in other areas of your life.

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soft heart

BY WENDY BRADFORD

P H O T O S B Y A M Y PA U L S O N

Soft Heart There was a moment when I could have made another choice. My girls’ giggling was reaching a fever pitch; I could tell they’d lost control of themselves. My son was entertaining them by jumping off his bed, naked.

It was so close to bedtime and no one was in pajamas, no teeth were brushed, no toys put away. I could have watched my three children having a good time in their room, not fighting with each other, entertaining each other and laughing. I could have stood in the doorway and thought how lucky I was to be in a moment, witnessing the chaos of carefree childhood.

But that was not my style.

“GET OFF THAT BED!” I demanded, surprising them. “Why aren’t you ready for bed? Who has brushed teeth? This room is a mess. I want this cleaned now.” They scuttled like insects to please me. The joy from the room evaporated as I listed orders.

This was my style. At restaurants or our own table, I tolerated no misbehavior, no fooling around. “Get in your chair; stay in that chair,” was on a loop at every meal. My kids expected harsh words and demands from me, and knew cuddles and kisses and hugs and joking would be plentiful as long as every chore was accomplished.

More than once, I’d heard my kids’ assessment of my parenting style. My oldest said to me, “This is our own house and we don’t want our parents to be mean,” my younger girl said, “You should be nice to us because that’s what love means.” There is a great deal of love and play and warmth in our home. My default mode, however, when reacting to cleaning up messes or hurrying them out the door, is more drill sergeant than Mary Poppins. I had tried many times to be a different, gentler kind of mother—but what I’ve finally come to realize is that I couldn’t be a gentler kind of mother until I could be a gentler kind of person with myself.

At the end of last year, we all sat reviewing our own milestones and highlights of the year—vacations; the day the kids learned to swim, to read, to ride bikes without training wheels; the fact that, for the first time in several years, we didn’t move apartments. Alone, my husband and I discussed other markers of the year, including addressing our son’s behavior issues, work we’d done on our own relationship, and the maturity we’ve seen in the children’s minds and bodies. Neither of us is a fan of resolutions, but in the spirit of new beginnings, my husband said he’d like to be more positive.

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I said I’d like to be softer.

“Softer” is a way of being, of parenting, of thinking that I learned to embrace over this past year. I had to. For years, I had been tightly wound around the idea that rigidity and harshness were my best options in dealing with my kids. And it wasn’t that I was necessarily choosing to be this way. It is the way I have always been—insistent and demanding of myself, uncompromising when it came to getting things done the “right” way.

Since I was young, and perhaps because of childhood bullying I experienced, I have had little tolerance for my own mistakes and frailties. I believed in my heart that the world would end if I were softer with myself, if I wasn’t on guard all the time. This extreme vigilance translated to my parenting, naturally and despite my desire to act and exist differently. Oh, how I wished to bring the inspirational quotes I read to life for me: “You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection” (Buddha) and “Love yourself first and everything else falls into line. You really have to love yourself to get anything done in this world” (Lucille Ball). The world is quick to tell us to be our own best friend; few people will tell you how to do that if it doesn’t come naturally.

I wanted, ached to act this way, to twist my brain into thinking better of myself. Quotes about good parenting destroyed me. I read, “Whatever you would have your children become, strive to exhibit in your own lives and conversation,” (Lydia Huntley Sigourney) and cried after one particularly difficult evening. After years of abusing myself, I knew I had to learn to be gentle in general, specifically so that I could be softer with my children.

I saw that they did indeed repeat my words and imitate my actions; the girls especially seemed devastated by mistakes. So I turned, fearfully and skeptically, to therapy, meditation, medication, and yoga to help change my path. I didn’t believe I could do it; I’d tried so many times before. But children are the highest stakes.

The process of shifting my behavior didn’t happen solely with selfawareness or a decision to change—after all, I’d been acting that way for decades. In fact, I struggled with whether to write this article in past or present tense; it is so much of a daily, active struggle. The dynamics of a gentle outlook must exist in almost every moment, or the negative thoughts gain momentum. I fail regularly and drift unconsciously back to snapping and judging. At times it feels like I am trying to change the direction of the flow of a river.

When I see how my children respond to a generosity of understanding, however, and how they thrive and soften and relate to me, I am reminded that although the struggle to do this is monumental and never-ending, the strength is worth finding.

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farmer’s wife

BY LIZ LAUCK

PHOTOS BY JANELLE ROSE

The first thing to know about a typical day for me is, well, there is no typical day.

I’ve learned to be flexible because farm life is fluid. We are thoroughly dependent on the weather and Mother Nature thrives on unpredictability. Each season on our farm is completely different. In the winter months, things are usually pretty slow. The rest of the year we shift to a steady pace of busy, and then accelerate to warp speed raising malt barley, corn, and dry beans. It all depends on the tasks at hand and the elements we encounter.

I have a love/hate relationship with my need to be flexible.

It’s wonderful to be a full-time farm wife and to be able to adjust to fit my needs and the farm’s needs.

I love the variability from day to day. There is always a different adventure to embrace. I have the flexibility to have coffee with my mother-in-law and take time for Bible study with friends. I am able to take on jobs with my little public relations business and volunteer for organizations. It’s a blessed, purposeful life.

Still, I struggle with not knowing if my farmer husband will be in for dinner at 5:30 p.m. or 9:30 p.m.

I sometimes have an entire day planned out when I wake up, but by the time my head hits the pillow I don’t have a single thing checked off my list. It’s frustrating when equipment breaks down or we get rained out and fall behind.

So, with this caveat in mind, let me tell you about a day in the life of this happy farm wife.

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HEART

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5:30 a.m.

I wake to the sounds of my farmer husband getting ready for the day. Thoughts of envy flash through my mind at the fact that he can roll out of bed and be completely ready 10 minutes later, including the time it takes to make coffee. As I hear him quietly close the door, I have one, small twinge of guilt at not getting out of bed, then I roll over and fall back asleep.

7:00 a.m.

My alarm clock goes off and I reluctantly roll out of bed. I have another stab of guilt about being a farmer’s wife who sleeps in so late. I add this to my growing mental list of self-improvement goals.

After a routine of breakfast, Bible devotional, picking up the house, and getting ready, I call my farmer husband to see what’s on the agenda. Depending on the day and the task at hand, he may need me to run tractor, run for parts, run him meals, run errands, or run to give him a ride. For a gal who hates running for exercise, I sure do a lot of the proverbial kind!

8:00 a.m.

I start my projects for the day. Some days I’m not needed on the farm, so I’m free to lay out my own schedule. There is always house work and yard work to do. If it ’s that time of year, I have a large vegetable garden to tend; last year I started freezing and canning my crop. I also have several public relations clients, so I might spend most of the day in the office writing, doing layout, or designing. If it’s winter, I may sneak down to the basement for an hour or two of quilting. I don’t believe I’ve ever said the phrase, “I’m bored.”

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HEART

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Noon

12:30 p.m.

Time to fix lunch. As I prepare our meal, I’m glad I grew up in agriculture. I understand the science, raise some of the crops, and know folks who raise the rest. I don’t have guilt about buying “conventional” produce for our salad or cooking up red meat for our tacos.

On the way out I call to see where my farmer husband is.

He’s making a round planting corn when I pull up. I can hear the whistle of the vacuum pump as it holds the seeds on the seed plate to lay a perfect, picket-row of plants. I haul our lunch up into the tractor and we have a lunch date as he continues to plant. I’m amazed at his ability to run the tractor, eat lunch, answer the phone, change the radio station, and still monitor the equipment.

As I head out the door, I check the mail and find an invitation to a baby shower. I reflect on my inability to RSVP more than 12 hours in advance. Who knows what will be happening that day? We might be coming off of a stretch of wet weather that put us behind and requires me to stay, or we might be caught up and I’m able to go. I just never know too far in advance. Luckily, most of my friends and family completely understand.

I hop in my car to head the four miles to our farm headquarters. It surprises most folks that we don’t live on the farm. While we wouldn’t mind it, we also like the separation from work life that town living allows. We also don’t have to deal with corn husks in our landscaping. You can bet as farmers in windy Wyoming that we hear complaints about those darn corn husk drifts.

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I watch as the seed is planted in the straight rows I helped strip-till last week. (Strip-till is a conservation tillage practice, where strips are tilled for the seed bed instead of plowing the whole field.) The tractor is equipped with GPS technology, which drives it in a perfectly straight line. Then we lift the implement on the ends and turn around.

As we move along at 5 mph, my farmer husband explains a technique he’s implementing with the help of his agronomist. It ’s called variable rate application and seeding, and with it we’re able to upload “prescriptions” and the system automatically adjusts fertilizer or seeding rates in the different mapped zones. All of this technology makes American farmers and ranchers more efficient, more sustainable, and better able to feed an ever-growing world population.

In 1960, the average farmer fed 26 people; today, the average farmer feeds 155!

HEART 79

1:30 p.m.

I load up and head back home to errands, laundry, cleaning, and working on jobs for clients. You know the drill. Farm or no farm, laundry is one thing we all have in common.

If I have some extra time I might tend to some of my volunteer work. I have this issue with “no.” So, inevitably, I overcommit and therefore become overwhelmed. I’ll sob to my husband at times and he does his best to bite his tongue, not remind me this is my fault, and gives me a sympathetic hug. But, overall, it’s wonderful to be able to assist with great causes.

3:00 p.m.

In between changing a load of laundry and answering emails, I lament the fact that I haven’t updated my blog for over a month.

I remind myself it’s not supposed to be a chore, but a fun outlet for telling people about modern farm life.

4:30 p.m.

Farmer husband calls for a ride. I finish my thought on the article I’m writing and head out to the farm yard. He pulls in to refuel the tractor and says he’s gotten quite a bit planted today and is feeling good.

He gets back in the tractor and our mini processional—complete with flashing lights—heads down the road. He drops the tractor off in the field and hops in with me so I can take him to his truck. On the way he looks at his phone’s weather app and grimaces at the prospect of more rain. It ’s hard to complain about the good moisture, especially when so many in the country are suffering terribly from extreme drought. Still, it’s hard to be at the mercy of the weather to make our living. Timing is vital in farming. We have to move fast in the windows we’re given.

He thanks me for the ride and I load up our dog in the back of my SUV and head home. Then it’s back to chores.

5:30 p.m.

I call my farmer husband to see if he wants supper in the tractor tonight. He says he thinks he’ll be home around 9 p.m., so don’t bother coming out.

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HEART

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6:30 p.m.

I get cranky if I don’t eat every 23 minutes, so I start supper. I’ve begun to run out of my canned and frozen veggies from last year’s garden, so I daydream about another bountiful summer full of fresh produce. I’m so grateful for all the farmers who provide the produce in the stores, but there’s something so satisfying about eating green beans you grew or opening up garden salsa you canned.

While I fix dinner, I call my mom to see how her week is going. My folks run a horse training and teaching business and they know about the long, tiring hours of the self-employed. We commiserate and share news. I reflect on the fact that I’m grateful my parents brought me up in agriculture and that I’m able to work in production agriculture still.

8:30 p.m.

After doing the dishes and putting away my projects for the day, I sit down to watch a show. I have a pang of guilt that my husband is still out in the field while I’m relaxing. So, I get up and sweep the floor in the kitchen and fill the dog’s water and food. I talk to the dog and ask him about his day on the farm. His knowing eyes tell me there were great smells and jack rabbits to chase. I pat him on the head and go back to my mindless show.

9:30 p.m.

I hear farmer husband’s truck pull up. He walks in the house with his phone on his ear. He’s laughing at something a fellow farmer is saying and says, “Gotta go. Liz’s got supper on the table.” He looks bone tired as he sits down and I fill his water glass. I’m already in my pajamas with teeth brushed and face scrubbed, but I sit down and listen to his stories from the day and we share tidbits of small-town gossip as he finishes his pork chop.

He then heads to the shower and I crawl in bed. An hour later, after he’s had a chance to wind down, he joins me. We kiss goodnight and lay down our heads in preparation for another day on the farm.

My last thought before I drift off is, thank God for this wonderful life.

—

Why Farm Wife and Not Farmer?

I’ve had women ask me why I go by farm wife and don’t call myself a farmer. The short answer is that I’m not a farmer. I fill a support role on our team. I’m like the spotter at the bench press. I play a vital role making sure everything stays in line and my partner has what he needs, but I’m not lifting the heavy weight.

I’m proud of my role as farm wife. My farmer husband is better able to concentrate on the management decisions and the big picture, while I’m keeping his clothes clean, his belly full, and assisting in the field as needed. We’re a really great team.

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goodbye, ed B Y M A RT H A K AT E S TA I N S B Y

PHOTOS BY KRISTIN DUNKER PHOTOGRAPHY

I lived with him for 12 years. He lied, cheated, nearly killed me, and still I stayed. He made me lie to my friends, my family, and literally to everyone I knew. I was in elementary school when he moved in, so young, so innocent, yet so very broken. For 12 years, I lived a secret life, a life I promised to let no one in on. I lived a life of darkness, of fear, of shame. I was battling an illness that not even my closest friends and family knew I faced. It consumed me, my thoughts, my behaviors, my actions. I lived by his rules and let them control my life. Every minute was spent focusing around him. He was my best friend, my comforter, my confidant, my supporter. But, he was really none of those things because deep down he was a liar and he was destroying me each day a little bit more. I lost more than I could count to him: time, money, friends, grades, family, and health. And losing it all, led to a lack of joy and beauty in my life. And who was this? His name is Ed and “Ed” is my eating disorder.

I spent years trying to fight Ed alone, thinking I could beat him without anyone else knowing. When that didn’t work I came back to him. Because unlike every other person and situation, Ed was who I could control—or so I thought. Once again though, I was lied to because the more I believed I could control him, the more he controlled me and eventually controlled everything. I was terrified of not having him in my life.

I remember standing on the scales getting my weight read to me and marked down in my file for my seventh grade dance class. I was traumatized, I knew the exact numbers and how it had changed since last semester. Years later, during the middle of my junior year I would miss a statemandated fitness testing because I was terrified to step on the scale and to know my weight and BMI. Of course, I would fake sick to get out of it but internally I knew I could never know those numbers because they would haunt me. For years, each time I went in for a check-up, no matter how sick I was, I made sure to pay attention to my weight, how it had changed. I would prep for days going into my appointment so I “maintained a good weight.” I was so very sick and I had no idea.

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Three years ago, however, I took a giant step of faith and stepped out of the darkness. Stepping out of the darkness was the best thing I could have ever done. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about those conversations or the days leading up to my choice. I was sick. I was addicted. I was dying a slow death. Today a little over three years later I am no longer sick or addicted to food or the constant thoughts of food or body image. I live a life that is filled with grace and not dictated by perfection.

Growing up I was the epitome of “Little Miss Perfect.”

And while I claimed to hate the nickname, deep down I loved it, because it meant I was doing something right.

It meant that I was achieving what others thought was perfection. Oh how wrong they were, because inside I was dying. Do you know how hard it is to try to do everything right and perfect all the time? It was exhausting. And that is where my eating disorder helped me out, he told me exactly what I needed to do to achieve the ultimate perfection and that was to be the thinnest possible.

Ed had a solution for every failed test, bad situation, breakup, loss—and it was, control it with food. And the more I let Ed take control, the further I moved away from all that made me happy. Of course he told me the thinner I got, the more I was reaching perfection. However, the thinner I became, the more I lost. Yet, Ed promised just a few more pounds and I would be there. Well, it never happened. No matter how thin I became, it never worked.

I spent years in the trap of not feeling worthy and it wasn’t until I nearly hit rock bottom that I began to redefine my worth. For years, my worth was placed in how I looked. I sought more than anything to hear I was beautiful but it was never enough. No matter how many friends, boyfriends, strangers told me I was beautiful, I never believed it. I nearly killed myself looking for a perfection and beauty that was skin deep. I wanted to be the girl that everyone stopped and stared at when they walked by, but no matter how much it happened or not, it was never enough, and I was never happy.

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For over a decade, I was the girl with the smile on her face. I was the All-American, girl-next-door poster child. I had everything I could have ever wished for and more, yet inside I was dying, taken over by a stronghold so much greater than I ever realized. I felt so, so alone because I believed no one would understand that I didn’t have it all together and that my world might be falling down around me.

That’s where grace came in and that is where the healing began. I didn’t learn that grace overnight, but it was the pain and suffering that got me there. Without these circumstances I am not sure grace would be as real to me as it is now. It was that message of the realness of grace that made the darkness bearable and reminded me that there was light at the end even when I couldn’t see it.

And those people who thought I was so perfect, well they loved the imperfect MK even more, because she was real.

So what about today? Do I still strive for perfection?

Even those questions make me laugh out loud. Because today I cannot live without grace, because I am one big mess. And the fact that I am not perfect is totally okay.

“Perfect MK” lived a really miserable life that led to a really horrible relationship with Ed and other destruction.

MK today messes up about every other minute. However, she is learning to accept the fact that it is okay, because in her imperfect mess she is loved deeply.

I used to live a life of darkness, of fear, of shame. While one may say this sounds awful, for me it was safe. My Ed, my pain, my control kept my life safe because it was what I knew. Stepping out of the darkness was the best thing I could have ever done but it was in no way safe. However, it was good. When I gained courage, strength, hope, I was able to step away from the darkness that controlled my life. It didn’t make each day not scary, but it made it good because I was learning a new way to tell and live out my story. I wasn’t living my life in the same way and throughout the hardship and pain, a beauty began to unfold that I never thought was possible.

Even nearly three years out of recovery life can still be hard and on those bad days I have to remind myself to tell my story. I have to remind myself that I don’t live the story of shame but I live a story of grace.

Life is hard and it is anything but safe, however the goodness in the midst of hardships is what makes life beautiful.

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I want you to know how much this freedom is a part of my everyday life. Freedom for me is about eating anything I want and that no food in my eyes is bad or good. Freedom is about wearing any clothes I want because I like them not because someone or something dictates my wardrobe. Freedom is about wearing no makeup for days. Freedom is about my hair being a mess and going out in public with it looking crazy. Freedom is about wearing sweats because I want to, not to hide my body size. Freedom is about not crying when I look in the mirror. Freedom is about playing to exercise and not torturing myself through exercise. Freedom is about seeing the beauty that radiates through me. Freedom is about knowing that beauty is NOT skin deep! Freedom is about realizing maybe I resemble Teresa more than Barbie and that is not only okay but also beautiful. Freedom even more is about not comparing myself to Barbie dolls or anyone. Freedom is about realizing that I am fearfully, wonderfully, and uniquely made. Freedom is about seeing beauty in others inside and out not because of their face or body but because of their heart. Real freedom is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

We are a culture that values the way that a person looks on the outside more than what is on the inside and it is so easy to get caught up in this idea. Whether you have struggled with an Ed or not, you at some point have probably felt not worthy, not beautiful, not good enough.

For me my worth was tied to the way I looked. Maybe it is for you too. Maybe it’s about something else for you. I share my story here not because I have figured it all out but because I believe that in sharing our struggles we are able to help bear each other’s burdens and comfort each other in our trials. My story isn’t finished. I am always a work in progress, as are you, but I have found hope, real freedom—and that is not something I want to keep to myself. I hope you come to realize that the beauty you struggle with is not defined by what you do or do not see in the mirror it is defined by your heart. I hope you know how deeply you are loved and cherished for your heart. I spent over a decade figuring out this truth. I don’t want that to happen to you too.

I couldn’t have done it however without a community walking alongside me during those times. We desperately need people to shower us with truth even when it is hard to hear. We need people to love us when we are unlovable, show us grace when we don’t deserve it, and sometimes we just need people to show up. And the more we live that out, the more people are able to see a beautiful story of redemption.

When life is hard and when life is beautiful we need people. We need people to hold our hands, dry our tears, laugh, and celebrate with us. You and I both were born to crave relationships where we are known, loved, and celebrated. Being known is hard, it takes work and vulnerability. Sometimes it takes lots of tears and it definitely takes time. Sharing our stories and hearing other people’s stories is one of the most beautiful sacred things we can do. Being in a community and surrounded by people you love and who love you, I believe is one of the most transforming things on earth. Choosing recovery and getting help for my eating disorder was one of the most terrifying things I have ever done but it is also one of the most beautiful and worthwhile blessings in my life.

By choosing recovery I gained my life back, a life I now am able to live in the beauty of freedom.

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three towel hooks B Y M E G H A N M O R AV C I K WA L B E R T PHOTOS BY KAISHA BANNON S T O RY T E L L I N G P H O T O G R A P H E R

It was the towel hooks that sold me.

We were on a pretty tight budget as my husband, Mike, and I looked to buy our first home together. We’d just gone from two salaries to one, we’d just relocated across the country with our then-toddler son, and in many ways we were still getting our bearings.

We didn’t want to overextend ourselves. It was time to be as frugal as possible.

Each home we toured required an exhaustive mental game of pros versus cons.

The kitchen needs a ton of work, but it has a garage. Lots of space, but dicey neighborhood. Excellent price, but Future Potential Kid #2 would be living in the attic.

The blue house, as we called it then and still call it now, was no different. On first look, the kitchen was miniature and cramped; but the living and dining areas were refreshingly open. No garage, but three spacious bedrooms. A twin home with shared walls on one side, but in a neighborhood that feeds into one of the best elementary schools in the area.

Only one small bathroom for the whole house.

But in that tiny bathroom hung three shiny silver towel hooks.

The hooks were perfectly spaced, meticulously hung, and they seemed to jump up and down with a message: There are three of you. There are three of us. It’s meant to be.

We bought the blue house, and although we had to make a few sacrifices on our wants, we each had our own towel hook, Mike, Ryan, and I. For years, we were unsure whether we wanted to have a second child or, more importantly, how that second child would come to us. Maybe we would have another baby or maybe we could follow a long-held desire by both of us to adopt.

Either way, the conversation was effectively tabled until we got our bearings and began to feel settled after too many months of job-searching, moving, and aboveaverage levels of stress. By the time the moving dust settled, Ryan was nearly four years old and it had become nearly impossible for us to imagine starting all over with a newborn.

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And yet, our little family felt incomplete. I started to notice all the holes where a fourth family member should be. The empty chair at the dinner table. The bed in the guest room that remained pristinely made day after day with its lack of rumpled sheets. The half-empty backseat of my car. We wanted another child. We wanted Ryan to grow up with a sibling.

Ultimately, we decided to pursue the adoption of another child through the foster care system, a path we had discussed as a maybe-one-day option for years. That one day had arrived.

Almost immediately after attending our very first foster care training, as the concept of having a second child began to morph into the reality of having a second child, I began to obsess over the towel hooks that had sold me on our home.

“We’ll need a fourth towel hook,” I’d say to Mike every couple of weeks.

“Huh, yeah, I guess so,” he’d reply.

“But where will it go? We can’t fit another hook on that wall.”

“Eh, I’ll just hang my towel on the back of the door. No big deal.”

“Mike. No. The room is already so small. If you hang a towel on the back of the door, the towels will start to take over the whole space. It will look messy, completely overrun by towels. Know what I mean?”

He’d stare back at me with an expression that plainly said he wanted to help me solve this crisis except that it wasn’t actually a crisis because of all the things to be concerned about during the preparation to welcome a foster child, towel hooks should fall somewhere near the very bottom of the list.

I’d let it go because, obviously, he’s right.

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Still, each morning as the light peeked through our bedroom windows and as my brain struggled through the subconscious fog that resides between asleep and awake, I found myself mentally hurdling over the same question to start the day: Where will we put the fourth towel hook?

In my mind, the hooks somehow emphasized our threeness. We had operated as a family of three for years, a simple fact that was evident in dozens of other little ways.

Like the way our wet shoes fit perfectly lined up on the drying tray next to the front door on rainy days. The way a single frozen pizza was always stocked in our freezer because it was just the right size for a lazy, last-minute family dinner. The way we all fit on our sectional sofa on a Saturday morning, relaxed and stretched out but not actually touching.

I didn’t want our second child to arrive, take a look around and feel like we were crowbarring him—and his shoes and wet towel—into a place where they didn’t quite fit. Into a space made for a family of three, not a family of four.

These are small things, they are details, but they feel disproportionately important when you are welcoming a child who has likely had a rough start to life. A child who needs, above all else, to feel accepted and wanted and loved.

We never had a chance to add that extra hook. We were surprised one day with a phone call from our caseworker in which we were told that not only were we officially licensed as a foster family, but they also had an immediate placement for us. A three-year-old boy we have since nicknamed BlueJay. It’s been months now since BlueJay first arrived, shoving his sneakers into the empty spaces on our shoe bench, leaving the sheets in the third bedroom endlessly rumpled, and strongly vocalizing his preference to macaroni and cheese over pizza.

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We have operated for months as a family of four with only three towel hooks.

Sometimes we stack two towels on one hook. Sometimes we toss a towel over the shower bar. And yes, sometimes we hang a towel on the back of the door.

The imperfect nature of this still bothered me at the very beginning as I was struggling to get my bearings as a mother of two children and as we battled to establish a new routine.

About a month in, though, something changed. Strangely, right around the same time that I realized I was falling in love with our little BlueJay, I simultaneously began to accept the idea that the whole towel hook thing wasn’t really that big of a deal.

Extra hook or not, it was becoming evident that BlueJay fit. He fit into our house, he fit into our cars, he fit into our life.

Most importantly, he f it into our hearts.

It wasn’t until I loved him that I realized the possibility—the unspoken fear—of not loving him had driven much of my early anxiety. I was just another mother waiting for another child, wondering how I could ever love a second child with the same ferocity with which I love my first. I was just another mother wondering whether my heart had any room left for another little soul.

I am just another mother who looks back now and laughs at herself, wondering how I possibly didn’t know that a heart doesn’t run out of space, it expands.

Knowing now that it was never really about the stupid hooks at all.

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HEART 93

left my heart in dakar

BY ASHLEY LA RUE

“I am not African because I was born in Africa but because Africa was born in me” Kwame Nkrumah

When the plane touched down in January it was still dark out. We arrived in the middle of the Harmattan winds and I could see the haze of dust circled around the lights on the tarmac. I was exhausted having not slept and traveling with a two- and three-year-old. There were no jetway bridges.

We deplaned and waited for a slew of buses to drive us over to immigration. We were ushered into a small room with fluorescent lighting and mosquitoes everywhere. It was humid. I was sweaty and terrified. We got through immigration and began the drive to the hotel. In the back of the Prado, I fiercely gripped my children as we drove, the sun beginning to rise and shine light on rubble, unfinished buildings where squatters live, and goats grazing on trash.

My husband turned back from the passenger seat and could read the terrified look on my face. I felt panic rise up in my chest. A knot in my throat. I couldn’t live here. There was no way to make this work. I was booking the first flight home.

beautiful wax. I immediately felt a sense of reassurance around her. My heart rate slowing down. She felt safe. She spoke my language. She loved on my children. We made small talk—I can’t remember now what we talked about.

And soon I watched her leave the lobby, unsure I could stay and terrified of the unknown, but feeling better somehow.

I had made a connection to Dakar, however small it was. I had a friend.

Every day she drank her tea from the same white mug, the aroma of lemongrass and basil filling the kitchen. I think about finding some lemongrass and boiling it the way she did. I think about that smell and our afternoon chats. We discussed our lives, her family and her daughters—her oldest was in her mid-twenties and attending University, which was one of the many reasons she ran a catering and cake business on the side.

Eight months before we left, I honestly had never heard of Dakar. When my husband forwarded me the email I pulled up Google Maps on my iMac. There I was sitting in my newly renovated kitchen in a perfect little suburb of Tampa.

Manicured lawns, palm trees, and stay-at-home moms like me flooding the resort-style pools, daily Starbucks in hand. I Googled Dakar and was relieved it was on the coast. At least we could go to the beach. I then naively told everyone, “I ’m moving to Africa where there aren’t any roads and everyone is poor.” I did what so many others do, perpetuating stereotypes without realizing it. I used terms like ‘third world county’ instead of developing country. It’s laughable now years later to think how wide-eyed and naive I had been. To use the words of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, I knew a single story of Af rica.

It was dirty, there was Malaria and AIDS, and people were living in poverty. I poured over the internet for some window into our new life but only found images of sandy dirt roads and women dressed in colorful wax print. Where would I get my hair highlighted? We spend the last few months en route in Washington, D.C. preparing a consumable shipment that more resembled an apocalyptic stockpile; 400 bottles of Gatorade, f ive gallons of hand sanitizer, and enough bottled water to save a small town.

I first met Therese in the lobby of the Méridan hotel where the kids and I stayed for the first few weeks. I came out of the elevator, once again knocked over by the intoxicating smell of incense and the hot humid air that hung on everything. It was suffocating and engulfed me every time I ventured away from the safety of our hotel room. I sat down on one of the small leather benches in the center of the hotel entrance. She sat down next to me, wearing

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After we knew each other for a few years and she was comfortable enough to let me in, I helped her with her own business cards and packaging for her cakes. She almost knocked me over hugging me and jumping with excitement when we had everything printed. She opened my eyes to the beauty found in hardship.

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Young women and men in Dakar are constantly innovating and creating. Running fashion week, opening boutiques, launching social media campaigns to bring awareness to social issues and the environment. Expats engaged in the community and worked alongside the people there to help one another improve. Dakar is diverse and colorful. It is so alive. I don’t remember when but at some point during those three years I stopped seeing the rubble, the trash, the overwhelming poverty. Instead I listened. I opened my eyes. The single story became many. There is no denying the significant problems that face Dakar, but I wanted people to know that life there is beautiful.

Therese taught me to see beauty, progress, laughter, happiness, and compassion. Through her guidance, I saw hope every day.

I should have told her more often what she meant to me. How our friendship changed me. How she opened my eyes. How much she taught me and not just silly things like how to make homemade pancakes and whipped cream or how to cure an upset stomach, but important things like openness and understanding. Before I married, I spent time working with children from low-income communities,

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fundraising and mentoring. I considered myself an open and loving person. I believe in the right to love, that we are all equal and should be afforded the same opportunities, but I continued to wrongly believe people needing help were broken. I moved to Dakar on a mission to eradicate the Talibé problem, fund schools, and clothe the homeless, but Senegal, and the people there, saved me instead. I found my faith, learned how to savor life, and value people not things. I learned the best way to help someone is to listen and be there for them when they ask for help. And that not everyone needs a foreigner to save them. When I think about the most influential people in my life, I obviously think of my parents, my husband and my children, but I also think of her. She is my Sénégalese mother. She taught me everyone has a story to tell.

Someone just needs to listen.

We left on a Friday. Always flight SA 207. The movers had come and gone and we waited with heavy hearts and bags for our airport transfer. Our family had grown over three years. There were five of us now, but really there were six. When the guard rang that the van was here, my heart sank. It was real. I had to leave. She insisted on staying until we left. I was hoping to say our goodbye and have time to recover before heading to the airport. Part of me had wanted to keep it short. To try to brush it off like we were just going on vacation. She held Evie tight kissing her sweet neck not wanting to let go, tears streaming down her face and then wrapped her strong arms around me. We were both crying. Though we’d promised we wouldn’t.

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

On the drive to the airport I thought about all the memories as we passed familiar places. How this city, three years ago, seemed frightening and unknown. Now it was bustling with the life I loved.

I couldn’t imagine that I wasn’t coming back to Dakar. I tried to think this was just a much-needed vacation to the States. That I would be traveling this road again and complaining about something mundane, like the taxi in front of us straddling the centerline. I felt panic rise up in my chest. The knot in my throat. Only now it was because we were leaving. How do you leave a place that changed your heart? I tried to think of something else, assuring myself that I will see her again. I laugh thinking of bringing her back more Betty Crocker frosting even though she makes the best from scratch. I loved her simplicity, her happiness, and contagious smile. She was the kind of woman I believed in fighting for, a woman entrepreneur in a Muslim world who wanted more for herself and for her daughters. She worked every minute of the day to give her children a different story.

We landed in D.C. eight hours later, everyone excited for the holidays and Mexican food, but I could only think of her. Her tears and the words I should have said. It seems all a dream now.

Did we really live there? The contrast so jarring.

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PHOTO BY RACHAEL CULLINS

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PHOTO BY WE ARE BUBBLEROCK

It’s been seven months and four days since we left West Africa.

I’ve always struggled to explain my loss. How deeply my heart has changed. The imprint that was left, the hole that remains, and the longing to return. The wound is raw and it hurts. I hold my breath looking through old photos. Each photo a flash.

A moment gone so quickly. Life was so rich there. When I think back on the girl, the naive blonde who went to Africa, I cringe. But I had to get out of myself to know now what I wish I knew then. The journey was worth it. It always is.

As I sit in my charming apartment in Vienna replacing my café au lait with a verlängerter as my afternoon ritual, I ache for our afternoon chats. I meander the streets of my neighborhood longing for another golden sunset over the Atlantic, the noise of the markets, the smell of incense, the friendly ça vas from everyone who passed you on the street. The lady selling grilled thiof down on the beach. The streets here seem empty by contrast, but we are finally feeling settled. Saturdays are once again reserved for watching Daddy play rugby. We make her quiche every Sunday and it makes us feel close to her somehow.

I imagine her warm smile, the love she showed the babies, and her strong arms around me, guiding me in the kitchen. I open the windows and breathe deep the smell of lemongrass, and she is with me. Always with me.

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PHOTO BY EDELLE PHOTOGRAPHY

hope

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beauty from ashes

BY LEXI BEHRNDT

PHOTOS BY NAN STRASBURGER

When I think of five-year-old me, innocent and wide-eyed, no limit to my dreams, I never could have foreseen the way my life would turn. The pain. The joy. The beauty, even in the wasteland.

I was never a little girl who dreamt of being “mommy.” Kids were sweet, but so were other things. It wasn’t until I was starting my senior year of college, a brand new bride, at the ripe age of 19, that the itch hit me. It ’s like someone flipped a switch, and the lights flashed “motherhood.”

My dreams of working for justice organizations and pursuing my master’s degree at Oxford, suddenly paled in comparison to my desire to be a mom.

My marriage was not what I had expected. Much harder.

Much more agonizing. Things no one prepared me for—it was a struggle, but I was prepared to fight. I thought all the challenges were normal. First year jitters. Growing pains.

Learning to do life together would hurt, but it would be so worth it.

After college graduation, we moved to Milwaukee for my first post-grad job. I spent the second morning of orientation queasy, in the bathroom and avoiding even the smell of food. The pregnancy test I took the next night confirmed it. At possibly the worst timing, I was now a mother to a tiny baby, growing safely within me.

The eight months I carried him felt like both a lifetime and a breath. My outer world was in chaos and had been for some time. Mental health issues tore away at those closest to me, and I paid the price time and time again. Yes, it hurt, but I also knew I was strong enough, and if anyone had to bear the burden, I was glad it was me.

When I first met him, I fell in love. Not in the romantic and gooey way. In the game-changing, life-altering, this-iswhat-I-was-made-for kind of way. We locked eyes moments after he was born, and it was in that moment I officially gave him my heart. To tell you the truth, he didn’t give me any other choice.

And so it went. Him and me.

The world around us was rocky that first year, but that didn’t deter us from joy. We found it with each other. A perfect pair. When our home was unstable and our future plans hung in the balances, he naturally, found solace in me, and I, in him.

And then the day came when another set of pink lines appeared, and I knew. I already knew the deep ocean of love, a soul-tying connection, a bond that would last longer than a lifetime. It had already started.

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The timing was off again, but my heart didn’t know.

Lincoln, my oldest. And Charlie, my little.

I carried Charlie and Lincoln together. Charlie within me, and Lincoln, my constant companion.

I knew that deep love every day. Every morning, when the coffee couldn’t run fast enough through the grinds. Every afternoon, when my eyes were heavy, and I couldn’t sing the ABCs or read him Little Blue Truck one more time, and naptime was my sweetest friend. Every evening, I sat, still in the pajamas from that morning, a meatloaf burning in the oven, and my soul burning with the craving for adult interaction from the isolation of the baby years. I knew that love when the heaviness of Lincoln’s body melted into mine, his frame forming around my protruding belly. I knew it each night as I inhaled and exhaled “I love you,” and rocked him back and forth, the old wooden chair creaked and while his energy dissolved and he succumbed to sleep in the safest place he knew, as he breathed in my faded perfume.

That was our every day. Lincoln holding my hand, and Charlie growing within. Outside of this bond, our life was not ideal, but it was this love between a mother and her children that overshadowed all of life’s challenges.

Soon, his brother would be there to play and grow with him, and we would be the perfect team. One more playmate.

One more best friend. One more confidante. He was welcome. He was so wanted. Their future was destined to be filled with days full of trucks and dirt, sneaky giggles and worms. And every night, I would put them to bed, kiss their salty foreheads, and say their prayers.

I would be their glue. I would be the one who would keep them from unraveling through all the boo-boos, disappointments, and heartbreaks. I would be the one to hold them, teach them, nurture them, and show them what love really means. I would be that; I was that.

Then, Charlie was born, and everything changed. I labored with the thought of meeting him face to face, holding him closely and whispering to him the depth of love he was born into.

Instead, minutes after his birth, he was rushed off, and I sat 10 feet away, in a hospital wheelchair, tissues crumpled in my lap as I whispered my love through tears and with fervent prayers, breaths sent to heaven, begging and pleading for his life.

This was not the plan.

Pain, like fire, ripped through my world and hope came

HEART 103

to my rescue. It came quietly. It came like the whispers I intended for Charlie. It came as a promise. It came as truth.

It came as a reminder that no matter what comes, hope is always there, and no matter how circumstances appear, I cannot let go. Hope was here to stay, no matter what amount of pain, loss, confusion, hurt, or rejection I might face.

It was in that moment, and probably a thousand tiny moments before, that my soul was branded, forever tied to hope. Forever tied to an unending source of love, grace, peace, and goodness. And it wasn’t by my doing. I’m not that smart, not that wise, not that strong, not that experienced. None of it. I’m feeble, but hope is not.

Those tiny, seemingly insignificant moments tended to my heart unknowingly as I was given 200 more days with my Charlie. They weren’t filled with late nights nursing, family outings, or playtime with his brother as he rolled on the floor. Instead, they were filled with monitors, central lines, never-ending alarms, oxygen, surgeries, and so many limitations.

Gone were the quiet days in the creaky rocking chair. Gone were the days of picking up the constant stream of toys strewn across the floor and books pulled off every shelf.

Gone were the days of gently swaying in the quiet and the peace—and then gone were the days that we were a team.

The three of us went back to two, with only memories to cling to.

Pain. Heartache. Grief.

But in the midst of the fire, there is more.

Like the miracle of hope and the miracle of joy. Love radiated from the four walls of his hospital room as he fought—as he gave every ounce of strength within him— because he heard those whispered prayers, the ones in which I promised no end to my love, promising there would never come a day I would not beg him to stay.

He gave me all he had, and after 200 days, hope held me when I could no longer hold Charlie. Hope was a backbone when mine gave out. Hope keeps me longing for the day we’ll be together again.

Hope is what I cling to. Hope brings beauty. Hope holds my hand as I wade through the waters. Hope gives me strength when the fires rage.

Following Charlie’s death, my marriage died. It was a long, slow death that was began far before his birth. A death, just like Charlie’s, that I fought tooth and nail to avoid—

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another death, that I was powerless to change.

Even so, it happened. And it was my hope that held me strong. I found my bearings in courage and my breath in faith.

I’ve learned something about pain. Even when it threatens to overtake, we have a choice; we are never lacking a choice.

We can succumb.

We can drown in the depths of pain or we can stand. Stand and f ight—not against the bad, but we can f ight for the good. Fight for hope. Fight for joy. Fight for peace. Fight for kindness and love. Fight for beauty to come from these ashes.

— A few years ago, when forest fires hit Colorado, I remember hearing stories of people who lost all material possessions.

The devastation was without mistake. Entire forests were burned to the ground, homes were laid waste, belongings crumbled to dust.

Death consumed life, and swallowed it up. After all, that is death’s way. Once-majestic sights were reduced to ashcovered wastelands with jagged edges as branches, and stumps protruded from the dry earth like old bones.

When a fire comes upon a forest, it destroys nearly everything in its path. Homes are lost. Beauty is lost.

Grandeur is lost. Livelihood is lost. It’s ugly, and it rages as it grasps with all its strength to kill all the life it encounters. At first glance, there is no good that can come, only desolation.

Nature fights for the good, and in its design, nature survives. No matter what might come against it, no matter what pain, pressure, or force. There’s something beautiful that happens in the wake of destruction.

In the midst of pain, something strange happens. As the ashes crackle, new life is born. The heat that once slowly suffocated the trees, pops open cones, and burst forth new seeds. Seeds that waited years to be planted, slowly find their way to earth’s soil through the most intense moments of those fires.

Seeds among ashes. Tiny sprouts in a wasteland. Twenty years down the road, the fire that destroyed everything did not win. Those seeds grew into trees and entire lives are rebuilt.

There’s something true about trees that I am learning can be true for us. From fires can come something so much

greater than we can even imagine. When our life is turned to ashes, we can survive, and we can do so much more than that. Beauty, like tiny seeds, can arise as hope, kindness, love, and grace as we carry through the pain.

— A quick look into my life, and people wonder how I am breathing. It all just looks like devastation and heartache and pain—nothing could be farther from the truth. In the darkest of times, I have found what truly matters. From the ashes have risen so much more.

When the hottest of fires consume us, tiny seeds scatter, and from those seeds in my life have come great beauty…

Pain has shown me empathy.

Heartache has led to inspiration.

Awareness has given me a voice for the voiceless.

Grief has given me compassion.

Adversity has given me faith, regardless of circumstances.

Hopelessness has given me hope, one thousand fold.

Strangers have become sisters.

Ashes. Dust. From there we came, our fragile forms, intricately crafted and woven together out of dust. And there, we return. Our lives are small and finite. We all have our fires. We all return to ashes.

My five-year-old self surely would have run in terror if I could have predicted the ways my life would unfold.

Sitting on the other side of pain, where fear does not hold me the way it did before, I know that though I have little, what I have is rich; though I face struggle, there is much to be learned; though I ache, I am constantly aware of what is important; though there is pain, there is even more good to be found; and though my life may be wrecked over and over again, I will never give up on love.

Here I am, raising my one remaining child as a single mom. I am breathing, minute-by-minute. I am living fully.

I am loving with a capacity my heart can barely hold.

And I know that though my life may be reduced to ashes, the ashes won’t win. The beauty arises, like tiny seeds growing in a desolate forest. Good is always there. It always makes a comeback in the face of adversity.

This is mine.

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the spare room B Y H E AT H E R Z E N I

PHOTOS BY BRILEY NOEL

“We went through the steps. We listened to the doctors, nurses, parents, siblings, and friends. We believed, even when most would ’ve given up. Together, we were scared; to others, we were strong. Even when you feel broken, it doesn’t mean all is lost. When your breath is hard to breathe and your tears seem to flood who you were before all of this, you must remember that there was a ‘you’...prior to infertility. There are no easy answers when the storm never seems to end, but through it all—strong and true remains love.”

In writing the The Spare Room, Heather Zeni shares with you the heart touching story of the seven year struggle that she and her husband endured on their path to parenthood.

Though their struggle was long and hard, Heather decided to find a purpose from it all, and set out to help others that were experiencing infertility. She found her purpose to uplift, motivate, and aid in support for couples trying to conceive. Not only has she done so through her book, but she also owns and operates Believe to Conceive, a servicebased business helping people consciously conceive. She is a Certified Fertility Massage Specialist offering one-on-one appointments, as well as workshops and classes. Heather is sharing some of her expertise on how to survive infertility.

1. Find support

The number one thing that I wish I had found sooner in my own infertility journey was support. It’s hands down the most important thing that will help you and your partner get through this time. Aside from family and friends, there are many online groups that offer support; Facebook pages, blogs, forums, RESOLVE, etc. It will help to find others that you can relate to, so don’t be shy! Find a place to share your story—you’re not alone. Plus you’ll help someone else feel less alone too.

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2. Self-work

6. Keep an open mind

3. Feel emotion

7. Think fertility

I am constantly pushing my clients to receive “selfwork.” Going through infertility is not only emotionally exhausting but also physically exhausting. Treat yourself to some self-love. I highly recommend energy work, (i.e., reiki, crystals, etc.) it’s relaxing but more than anything it ’s healing. When you heal your past or even present you make room for what is coming in the future. Clean out old hurt, anger, pain—and make room for happiness. Heal! If energy work is not your thing a simple massage will help your mind and body to relax and rejuvenate.

Allow yourself to feel every single emotion that presents itself. Infertility brings a roller coaster of emotions. Be aware of each one and allow yourself to feel each one. If you’re angry be angry! If you’re sad be sad. If you’re excited be excited. If you’re jealous be jealous. Try your best to not shut off emotion. I always say, “Feel every single emotion that presents itself but don’t hold onto it. After feeling it let it float on down the stream.” You’re going to have moments where all you want to do is give up and it ’s in that exact moment that you find the strength you need to keep going.

4. Meditate or pray

Spiritual connection is huge for me. I always ask my clients to believe. Believe in something bigger than yourself.

Believe in divine magic. I don’t care what god/goddess you choose to worship as long as you choose to believe in something. If your god of choice is a piece of cardboard I don’t care, just believe in it with your whole heart. Spend time daily connecting with your higher power through whatever method suits you—meditation, prayer, etc. Allow yourself time to sit quietly and connect. Set your intentions at this time, “I intend on being a mother.”

5. Surround yourself in babies

Yes, I know. This is typically the tip that makes most women trying to conceive cringe. As crazy as it sounds and as much as you may hate going to that baby shower, there’s a reason I ask you to do this; and it ’s not because I’m evil. It ’s because I see the bigger picture. I want you to THINK BABY as much as you can. When you’re at your second cousin’s baby’s one first birthday party and you’re surrounded by babies I want you to see all these babies and SMILE. A baby is what you’re longing for so take this baby-filled opportunity and see them as a way to help lift you up and remind you of what you DO want, not as a reminder of what you don’t have. Trust me on this one.

We’re calling in the good, releasing the bad (but not before feeling it first, of course).

Your baby will come to you in its own way and in its own time. There are so many ways for you to become a parent.

You must trust that it will happen in just the way that it’s meant to. That advice isn’t always easy to hear especially when you’re in the midst of trying to conceive. However, the reality is you’re doing all that you can do. Open your mind to every single possible way you can help the child you’re meant to have find his/her way into your life. Even if that ’s through adoption. Keep an open mind and more importantly an, open heart.

This is my favorite tip mostly because when it was first presented to me it changed my whole perception. When you’re struggling with infertility it’s very easy to get caught up in the negative. And understandably it’s heartbreaking, month after month (after month after month). However, when you change the way you think you can change the way you feel. Instead of thinking infertility, think fertility.

Change that thought pattern to something positive. When talking about this journey to friends, family, or others share the story of your journey as a whole, share your intentions of being a mother. Celebrate your strengths as opposed to your struggles. Infertility is the struggle; fertility is the journey. You’re on a mission talk about that.

8. Let go of “bad ” advice

You’re going to constantly be hit with “words of wisdom.”

Everyone has some kind of advice that they’re going to try and throw at you. The nice thing is they’re only trying to help. The annoying thing is they’re annoying. Try a simple “Thank you for your encouragement!” And let the “if you just relax it’ll happen” advice roll off your back.

9. Surrender

Yes surrender! Go easy on yourself and your partner. Do things that make you happy! Find ways to allow the magic in. Create! Make a vision board of all the things you want to attract in your life and give those things attention. Love yourself. Be proud of yourself. Surrender to the things that are out of your control.

10. Take a break

Give yourself space and time to breathe and reflect. Refresh your marriage or partnership with a quick trip away.

Remember why you fell in love in the first place. It wasn’t only to have a child. Reconnect. It’s so very important.

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i wanted more

BY NAKEIA C. HOMER

P H O T O S B Y K E L L E Y R AY E

As she spoke, I sank deeper and deeper into my seat, and into my 10-year-old self.

She was all dressed up in a pant suit, her hair was pulled back into a bun, and she used her index finger to push her glasses into place as she continued to speak—using some really big words. She used phrases like “studies show,” “statistically speaking,” and “product of their environment” to describe what happens to children who grow up in high-risk homes.

She said if you lived in a home with family members who smoked cigarettes, you would more than likely be a smoker.

She said if you lived in a home with family members who abused drugs or alcohol, you would more than likely abuse drugs or alcohol.

She said if you were the product of teen parents, you would more than likely become a teen parent.

As she made her way through the speech, I went from being fully attentive to completely disengaged. Trying hard to listen, as I fell in and out of daydreams, I thought she’s talking about me.

My mom was 15 years old when I was born; and my father was 16. I lived in an environment filled with drug and alcohol abuse, smoking, violence, and many other highrisk behaviors. According to her, the studies and statistics were telling the tale of a less than promising future; and I was the main character.

I felt like everyone was looking at me. I thought everyone knew my story…

I lived in a public housing development (affectionately known as the projects). My parents were still babies themselves, when I was conceived. So, my paternal grandmother stepped in to raise me. She did the best she could, but without much money and still raising three children of her own—including my father—it seemed we always came up short. My environment was very difficult to navigate. I was only 10 years old at the time, but I felt like I had lived through a couple of decades. I knew more than I should have, had to handle more than my share of burdens—and that made me very angry, very early on in life.

I was constantly fighting this inner battle between who I was in reality, and who I was in my heart. I felt different than everyone else. As a kid, I knew there had to be more to life than what I was experiencing. Although I had no real grasp on what life could be

I knew that whatever it could be, would be better than what it was.

As the speaker neared the end of her speech, I drifted into another daydream. I grew angry as I thought about how life would be if I were to become like everyone around me. I felt like the odds were stacked against me. I thought, “How could they make choices that would put me at such risk?” I loved my family. I saw the wasted potential in many of them; and I just couldn’t imagine making those same choices.

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HEART

109

My anger shifted into empathy and then into determination. Coming out of my daydream, I was able to listen as a couple of important points were addressed.

She said, “Your life is your choice…and if you don’t make the right choices, starting right now, you will become a statistic…you don’t have to be like everyone else.”

I sat up in my chair as those words fell into my heart…

My life is my choice. I don’t have to be like everyone else.

At that very moment. At just 10 years old. I made a choice.

I decided to write my own story. I decided to work toward a very promising future.

I set my f irst goal.

Later that same evening, I sat with my journal and created what I am sure is the simplest goal-setting method in history.

Goal: Get out of the hood.

Plan: Don’t have a baby (yet), graduate high school, get a job.

That’s it. That ’s what my 10-year-old self came up with— and apparently that’s all it took.

Today, I am blessed to have experienced the more-to-life moments that I could only daydream about in the past. I met my goal. I got out of the hood. I made it through my teenage years without becoming a parent. I graduated from high school, and college. I worked as a youth counselor, social worker, and advocate for youth who were in highrisk environments like I once found myself in. Fourteen years ago, I began a second career as a songwriter and entrepreneur, married my husband, and eventually started a family.

I am certain that who I am in this moment is a direct result of the choice I made as a 10-year-old. All these years later, I am able to articulate the impact the words of the speaker, had on my life. But at the time, all I had was a belief that I was created for more; and I was determined to experience it.

There will be times in your life when your circumstances will try very hard to dictate whom you become. You may not have been an at-risk 10-year-old from the projects. You may not have had drugs or alcohol in your environment.

You may have had the perfect parents, who raised you in

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the perfect home, with the perfect set of circumstances that got you off to a perfect start. To everyone around you, your life is perfect. And yet still—you want more. Maybe things weren’t perfect for you, but they weren’t that bad either.

You’ve created a decent life for yourself, but you just have this thing somewhere deep inside of you that speaks to your heart and whispers there is more; so you long to experience it.

More is often frowned upon. Many secretly long for it, but the idea of wanting more can often make you feel guilty. That guilt comes from this misconception that wanting more means you are not grateful for what you already have. Some may even accuse you of being ashamed of what you have or who you are.

I, for one, have never been ashamed of where I come from.

I’m actually blessed because of it; therefore making me grateful for it.

I’ve created a life that has my story as the main character. I share the lessons I’ve learned with teens and young adults.

I write songs of encouragement that were created as I made my way through some of my darkest moments. I encourage women to create lives that they love—by embarking on a daily journey to do more to love their own.

More is simply an addition to what already is. It’s an expansion. It ’s an opportunity for you to experience the fullness of your heart’s desire. It’s a daily decision to be who you were created to be and nothing less. It’s a choice NOT to settle, but to pursue something that you absolutely love.

There have been many defining moments in my life, but nothing hits me like the one I experienced at just 10 years old. It was the moment that started it all. It was the day that changed the course of my life.

It was like that speaker—who was all dressed up in a pant suit, with her hair was pulled back into a bun, who used her index finger to push her glasses into place as she spokeusing some really big words—said directly to me, “Nakeia, with your 10-year-old self, there is more to life and you have the right to experience it.”

Maybe this is your defining moment. Maybe today is the day that changes the course of your life. Yes! I’m speaking directly to you, in all your awesomeness—there is more to life and you have the right to experience it. If more is what you desire, more is what you should you get.

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love calcutta arts B Y P R I YA M I S H R A

P H O T O S B Y C A RY N N O E L

I grew up in Northern India, near Allahabad and Delhi.

I come from an Orthodox Brahmin family and was raised by my doting father after my mother died when I was two weeks old.

I spent my life in a residential school. I had no siblings.

Growing up, my dad was very modern in his thinking. He taught me to care about humanity through loving, caring, and respecting everyone around us. I always imagined that I would join my father in his business when I reached maturity, but he had a different plan for me—medical school. He hoped I would serve people who could not afford health checks and treatments because my mother died of septicemia (also known as blood poisoning). At that time, my father couldn’t afford her treatment. It wasn’t until much later after her death that he achieved big success in his business. He wanted me to make sure no one else went through what they did.

Eighteen years ago, I came to work in Sonagachi, India. I work for an NGO [non-governmental organization] and they were running a program on STD/HIV intervention.

I joined the NGO as a program coordinator. In my first week, I thought there was no way I could stay. It was so dirty and unhygienic; a very scary place to be. One night I was distraught and wrote my resignation thinking that I would quit the job. I was sitting in the office thinking about it when one of the women who worked there as a peer educator came to see me. When I told her my plans, she said something that I will never forget. “We are lying in the gutter and stinking. People cross over us and cover their noses and ignore us.

No one has the guts to get down in the drain and give us a hand and clean us.” I knew then that this was where I had to stay.

Sonagachi is a very tough place to be. It looks like a big marketplace where every evening countless women queue up to sell what they have—their bodies and dignity. And

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sadly, that hardly buys them one square meal a day. We live in a country where women are respected and worshiped, but on the other hand are sold like commodities. The people of this country are not bad. The women are not bad.

The place might be bad, but the women are not bad.

Women come to our organization asking for employment and a way to get out of the sex trade. Unfortunately, to be sure we adequately care for the women in our care, we have to turn some people down. We can’t afford the resources to help them all. We have to sustain our ability to keep women away from the sex trade and though we’d like to help them all, desperately, our resources don’t allow it. The most difficult thing about my job is telling women we can’t help them.

In order to help the women we do have, we need to generate income, so we started looking around for product ideas. Currently there are 55 women in the program who make things like personalized stationery and blankets from recycled saris. We began washing laundry for the hospitals and purchased a machine where we make jute bags and do contract work for other freedom businesses in our area. We also send children of the sex workers to school in hopes that they will be well educated to change their paths in life.

Even though my life has been threatened many times in our dangerous community, I am not afraid to keep doing this work. I want the women and children we help to take leadership in their freedom business. I want them to feel confident to stand up for their community. When I see them smiling and having new self-respect, I know their lives are changed. My hope is to spend my life here and take my last breath among these people, because they are part of me and I am part of them.

This is the beautiful thing about being a woman—we can make changes in another woman’s life by understanding and feeling her pain. All we need is a little courage to start somewhere in life because it is never too late.

Freedom businesses are named for their ability to set women free from the sex trade. Love Calcutta Arts has arisen out of a desire to break the cycle of prostitution by bringing freedom to young girls who are otherwise at risk of abuse. LCA provide girls with the economic freedom of a job and seeks their holistic freedom, endeavoring to restore their sense of dignity and self-worth.

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more than sick

BY ERIN WHALEN

PHOTOS BY KRISTEN DYER

I was pretty healthy up until the early years of my marriage.

I just remember having so much energy and feeling full of life. I kept myself very busy. My heart has always been the kind that wanted to help serve others. Need a meal; what time can I drop it off ? Kids need watching? I’ll be right over. Need a bit of cash or a ride somewhere? Done. I never liked to ask for help, but was always the first one to offer it.

I could live off little sleep and coffee if I had to and had the energy and stamina to spend my life in many ways. I felt pretty confident in who I was and what my purpose was on this earth.

It was to help people in anyway I could.

Now in hindsight I see that it was my people pleasing nature and pride in myself that was the driving force behind a lot of that. It made me feel good and got me friends. Not the best M.O. In February of 2006, at age 25, not too long after the birth of my second child, I woke up one morning feeling like my body was going to give out. I was so scared I was going to die and I utterly terrified. I could barely walk, my head was spinning and screaming at me, my heart was pounding, and I was having pains down my arms. I went to the doctor who ruled out a heart attack and stroke. They then diagnosed me with fibromyalgia and arthritis and gave me some meds to deal with the immediate pain. I went to a few doctors after that, but I was told maybe I had depression and anxiety due to the fibromyalgia so I should go on antidepressants.

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illness finally came. I felt like my head would spin suddenly and I would lose balance. My speech and word recall wasn’t there like before. My weight was dropping at an alarming pace.

My hair was falling out. My feet and hands would go numb. I lost coordination with my hands for days at a time.

I could barely read because my eyes felt like they were crossing. Every day felt like I was coming down with the flu, so weak, so tired, crazy headaches, and the muscle and bone pain was excruciating. I emailed some ladies asking for prayer when a friend mentioned the possibility of Lyme disease. At this point it was early 2012, six years since I had first felt very ill. The whole time this is happening I looked fine on the outside. My hair loss wasn’t crazy noticeable as I have very thick hair. I had about 30 pounds of baby weight still to lose, so losing 40 pounds over 12 weeks didn’t alarm people—they just wanted to know my secret.

I finally found some naturopathic doctors who were convinced I had Lyme disease. We began treatment, but still, I keep getting one step forward only to go one step back again. It has been frustrating and a little defeating. I have since learned that is just the typical case with latestage-chronic Lyme disease.

This disease has nearly destroyed my self-esteem. I was emotionally and spiritually in the dark. Remember that confident servant-hearted gal? She was gone. I felt like a shell of myself. Even now, my kids are often sad that their mommy can’t take them to the park or zoo or even do fun crafts with them.

After many miscarriages and the birth of two more children, my symptoms kept getting worse. After being misdiagnosed with a hormone issue and having a simple surgery to remedy the immediate concerns of that, I began to really take matters into my own hands.

Now on my good days I take them there but it can become confusing because while some days I’m fine, there are others where I can’t even get out of bed. I almost always stay home while my husband takes the kids to do all the fun things.

I had convinced myself that I had cancer at one point and decided I didn’t want to know. So I had taken about a year off from doctors when my worst bout with this mystery

I could hardly take care of myself as all my energy went for caring and schooling my four precious children. Honestly,

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most days even that felt like way too much for me. I relied on my husband to take care of the home on top of working 50+ hours a week. I could no longer be counted on to be there for friends and lost many friendships.

I also wore out my friends with talk of new med plans and asking for prayer. My extended family didn’t understand what was wrong with me, which made sharing holiday meals together stressful. They didn’t fully quit asking how I was doing, but I could tell it was just as hard to grasp for them as it was for my kids; so I quit telling them what was going on.

I shut myself off from sharing my illness with others. I felt like my life revolved around me and the war within my body. It was a scary place to be, truth be told it can still be a scary place to be.

I battled severe depression alone. I wondered if they would be better off without me. My amazing husband could see my struggle and worked hard to help me, but he too felt hopeless. I think a big part of why it was so hard is because I kept this picture of what my life would look like without Lyme.

I truly needed to allow the dreams I had about my life and what it would look like die so that new ones could be born. I had to realize that this wasn’t some punishment for sin or a cosmic joke. I started to believe that maybe this hard trial could be used for a blessing in my life and others. Starting with my husband, my children, and myself. I had to learn to choose joy when my body screamed constantly. I learned to love the broken body I have; I would create lists of all the way it still works. I learned to journal and name the things that I was thankful for—and there is still so much to be thankful for.

It would be impossible to list all the ways my life has changed because of Lyme. I am home a lot. My life in a lot of ways still revolves around medicine and food schedules. And for the most part, I know my physical limits. I take my good hours or good days and enjoy every single second of them. I have to be choosy about physically helping others, but emotionally and spiritually I can invest! I feel great fulfillment when I can muster up the energy to see people or go grab coffee with them. I slap on some makeup and pretend for the time being that I’m free of it all. But because I have to rest a lot,

my interactions with others are more deliberate and heartfelt.

I quit homeschooling and enrolled my kids in school so that I could take care of myself.

The hardest lesson was that it’s not selfish to take care of me if that means I can be more mentally and physically involved as a wife, mother, and friend. I’ve learned that I have to take care of myself before I can take care of others.

Surprisingly, this has brought many good things my way. It took me hitting the bottom and letting go of what I thought my life would look

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like and being thankful for what it does look like. I learned to seek out others who were sick and hurting so that we could walk this path together. I’ve learned that I still am valuable and have something to contribute. I’ve learned to accept help.

I ’ve learned to say no to some really good things so I can say yes to great things.

I’ve also learned to share my pain, my hurt, and my joys with others unapologetically. And want them to do the same. I’ve become a lot more of an intentional wife, mother, and friend.

I try and make sure that the people I love know that they are loved. I’m learning to stop judging people. Let ’s be honest, it can be easy to look at others who look fine and struggle to reconcile that they are truly sick. It can also be easy to try and lay blame somehow or give them an equation to fix themselves. It doesn’t work that way and I’ve learned to just encourage others along their own path.

I have the most patient husband and children who care for me, encourage me, and pray for me. I also have made some of the best friends I have ever had during this time. Who allow me to vent, who wipe my tears, share my joy and suffering, and who let me enter into their lives the same way. That has been huge! They have been such an incredible blessing.

Most days I can maintain joy and hope. Most. But not even close to all. To me joy is different from happiness. Happy to me is a fleeting emotion, while joy is like a deep well. I can keep going back to it to fill me up and get me through the days when my happiness is gone and I get angry and frustrated that over nine years later, I’m still battling this.

But I don’t have to be bullied by my emotions anymore. I can feel them, acknowledge them, pray over them, share them, and move forward. My hope comes from God and His word. The promise that He sees me, hears me, knows me, and will work this out for good. But let’s be real, even still some days are just a wash. Some days I’m just so tired and ready to stop fighting. Some days I’m ready for a new body.

I have reevaluated everything as a result of this lifechanging illness. Especially my faith. How could my God allow this ongoing suffering in pain in me and countless others and still be good? Could I believe really that?

I read and reread His promises and many biographies of others who had suffered worse than me. Going through this with Christ who comforts and gives me peace is easier than doing it without. This suffering and pain and all the great

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and hard things that have come out of it aren’t just about me. They are part of a bigger story and I have the privilege to share that with the hopes that one person will have hope.

I reevaluated my marriage. What would it look like with this new normal? We’ve learned to lower our expectations of each other and have more fun together. We have new goals. This summer we will walk a 5K as a family. We will try and seek others who are hurting and suffering and try to bring hope and relief to their pain. I worry that I’m not good enough, smart enough, that I’m not up for the task, and that my story doesn’t matter to others. I sometimes worry that I hold my husband and children back from participating in life, but I’m not allowing that to paralyze me anymore. We are making goals and writing them down and even if I cannot physically participate on the day of, I will be there to encourage and be their biggest cheerleader.

I hope so hard to be healed. I hope that all these things I’ve learned won’t go away and that I can use them as tools to bring joy and hope. I hope that my kids can see that I’ve lived mostly joyfully through pain and suffering and learn to do the same. I hope they learn that suffering in life is a guarantee and that how they choose to deal with it is what makes all the difference. I hope that I don’t get worse. I hope that I can use this for a greater purpose. I’m not sure exactly what that is but I have hope that it’s something great.

I live my life day-to-day choosing to be fully present and thankful for the day and trying to do the next right thing. I envision a lot more tests and meds and whatever it takes to get me to a good spot. But my hope isn’t fully in the meds or any process anymore. I know pain is temporary. It will either end on this side of life or the other, and every day I’m getting closer to being healed.

I am a daughter, sister, wife, mother, and friend. But more than anything I am a child of God who doesn’t bring me on this path to abandon me. He has a plan for all of this.

The worth that I find in God, my family, and my friends is what shapes my heart.

Life is really about community, and knowing you’re a part of something bigger and have worth no matter what condition you may be in.

Come as you are because in this community you are welcomed.

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waiting with great hope B Y K E A RY C H E N E Y

PHOTOS BY THE ARCHIBALD PROJECT*, G R A C E A N D S A LT , A N D F L O ATAWAY S T U D I O S

Hope: A conf ident expectation and desire for something good in the future.

I stepped off a plane in Uganda on December 30, 2014, and the next day (New Year’s Eve), I met my son, Oliver, for the first time and became a mama. Words cannot adequately express what my heart felt that day, or the way my love for my husband, Justin, grew by what felt like a million times. It gave me a better glimpse of our Heavenly Father’s love for us: the width, the depth, how vast, and never ending. And yet I am still so far from ever coming close to comprehending His heart for me. I love Oliver with every ounce of my being, and to think that God loves us infinitely more blows my mind. Heaven invaded earth in that moment and I will never be the same. God put an unexplainable love in my heart for our sweet boy because He knew I would need that to hold onto for the journey we were about to walk in the months ahead.

What we thought would be a three-month trip to finalize Oliver’s adoption has turned into nine months with a continued uncertainty of when we’ll return home. The hope of my flesh desired to be home before summer started, but at the same time, my true hope desired for God to be glorified through our story. It became a daily battle between the two. Before boarding that plane to Uganda, I told God that I didn’t want to be comfortable, I didn’t want complacency, I wanted to be stretched in ways that would increase my faith, making it steadfast. I just had no idea what would lie ahead and that each and every day would force us to be fully dependent on Him for strength and a renewed soul. Our first few months in country were spent trying to get Ollie’s medical issues diagnosed. We went to more doctors and hospitals than you could count on both hands, had every possible test run—multiple times—and still we had no answers. All we knew was that Ollie’s life depended on blood transfusions every two to three weeks. He was sick, miserable, in pain, and never slept. Our days felt long and were emotionally, physically, and spiritually exhausted.

While we were doing everything we could to advocate for Oliver, my body started to become weak with what was diagnosed as parasites. I felt tired, fatigued, and was losing weight. It got to the point where I was so sick that I couldn’t get off the couch to pour myself a glass of water. I could no longer pick Oliver up out of his crib, or wear him in the baby carrier. After two and a half months in Uganda and no end to our trip in sight, I flew home to be able to work for a few weeks. I thought some healthy food, medicine, rest, and sleep in a comfy bed would rid the parasites from my body, and get me back on track to work and return to my boys in Uganda. My body only became weaker after I returned home to the States and I wondered how I’d even get on a plane to head back to Africa.

After a month of only getting worse, I found myself in the ICU, waking up from a coma to the news that I had been diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes (T1D). My husband and son were 9,000 miles away and I had never felt so heartbroken, frustrated, alone, and confused.

The same week I was in the ICU, Oliver’s hemoglobin levels were the lowest they had *The Archibald Project is an orphan advocacy media based nonprofit.

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ever been. He desperately needed a blood transfusion, but they had to find a hospital with his blood type on hand.

Not only that, but finding a vein in that sweet boy’s body was near impossible and would take anywhere from two to eight hours of continuous poking, all while Justin was in a clinic himself, on IV antibiotics from a horrible bacterial infection. It felt like a really bad dream, that I would just wake up and it would all go away. I started to lose hope. In everything. In our adoption, in my health, in being together as a family again, in having a joyful heart, and in believing that God would redeem. Did I really even know what hope was anymore? Did I know how to hope? What was left to hope for? It’s then that I realized that I didn’t fully understand hope and what it really meant.

I laid in the hospital bed, hooked up to two IV poles with four IVs in my arms, and what looked like 30 bags of meds. I wondered how God would ever redeem this, or how he could possibly use my diagnosis for a greater purpose. I believed that he would, I hoped that he would, I just couldn’t even begin to picture how that would come to fruition. In that really raw moment, my flesh felt that his redemption could never amount to the grief my heart was feeling. That nothing could ever be enough, or worth the pain my heart was feeling over the loss of so many things, and on top of that the heartbreak and trauma we had been through the last three and a half months. I know I didn’t truly believe that, but my human mind could never comprehend what beauty could come of those painstaking months. But that ’s the difference in our human way of thinking and God’s divine plan. Our minds are not capable of coming up with such glory. We were not designed in that way, nor is it our job. God uses us for the glory He is accomplishing. We are just called to be faithful and follow Him. In the weeks following my diagnosis, learning about this disease I knew nothing about, a new lifestyle, a new way of eating, and what it took for me to live another day because my pancreas stopped producing insulin, all I longed for was “easy.” But guess what? “Easy” doesn’t get the kingdom anywhere. And “easy” keeps you from experiencing incredible intimacy with The Lord and total dependence on Him. “Easy” doesn’t make us more like Christ. When I realized that God chose not to give us the “easy” that I so desperately wanted, I started to see that he was using our trials for His glory and for His kingdom and that was a far greater gift than to walk an easy road. He was drawing us closer to Him and allowing circumstances that gave us a deep need for Our Savior. The thing is, we don’t always

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see God’s purpose in our trials right away. Sometimes it’s months before He reveals it to us, years, or maybe we’ll never even know why. I clung to His promise that nothing is wasted.

I prayed hard and hoped that God would start to reveal his divine plan to me sooner rather than later. Type 1 Diabetes is a hard diagnosis. There is no cure, and I needed to know that God would use it, that it wouldn’t be wasted. That this wretched disease wouldn’t all be for nothing. I also knew that I wasn’t promised any of that, and maybe I’d never know the purpose in my diagnosis on this side of heaven.

But God knew that redeeming my pain would increase my faith and the faith of those around me. He answered my prayer in a way that I never even would have dreamed of. He gave me desires I didn’t even know I wanted. He took my pain and suffering and used it for good and for His glory. And that is something that He promises and is faithful to.

My understanding of hope has grown tremendously. There is a vast difference between hope of the flesh and biblical hope. Hope of the flesh is the desire of something in the future, not knowing the outcome—like hoping for good weather, a pay raise, or your favorite dress to be on sale at Target. Biblical hope is a confident expectation and desire for something good in the future. It’s an expectation that God is and will continue to do great things. What I realized is that I was losing hope in things of the flesh I desired, like wanting to be home as a family by a certain time, the healing of my body, etc. But as the hope of my flesh was dying, my biblical hope and hope in The Lord was increasing. The things I was hoping for changed. The more I surrendered the desires of my flesh, the more my biblical hope grew and the more my heart wanted to be in line with God’s will and His plan. Even if it meant walking through hard seasons. The more I accepted my circumstances, the more I saw God’s divine plan, the more I saw His love for me, and rested in the fact that His work was not complete.

It had only just begun and that great glory was awaiting me. Type 1 Diabetes taught me what hope is and how to hope. I hoped for redemption, expecting and knowing that God would do something amazing. I hoped for glory and that people would know Jesus more because of our story.

And now, my constant hope is that I would be a vessel, and that I would continue to allow The Lord to use my life to further His kingdom. The hope of my flesh so desperately desires a cure for T1D, but even more so, my hope in Jesus is that His name would be known and be greater because of this disease.

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One of the most beautiful things I have experienced with my Type 1 diagnosis was the new community of friends I gained—people who understood me, who know the work that goes into every hour to live another day, and the weight we carry with a chronic illness. They understand the carb counting, the injections before eating anything, the math that consumes our brains, the possible complications, the mere fact that a simple cold could land us in the hospital, and the fear that no matter how hard we to try to do it “right,” that we’ll still do it wrong because there are what seems like a thousand factors that go into your care plan.

To feel understood by someone when you’re walking a journey like this is comforting and good for your soul.

I have been incredibly blessed by two women that are both moms to T1D kids, who have taken me under their wing, shared all their wisdom and knowledge about T1D, and have given me so many supplies that are hard to come by (especially when you can’t even get into an endocrinologist because they’re booked out till fall). I’ve spent countless hours talking with them and hearing what it’s like to be a parent to a T1D child. My heart ached for them as I could only imagine what a day in their life looked like trying to manage their child’s disease. I was amazed at their strength. I thought that being diagnosed as a Type 1 was hard, but I know self-control, I know the complications of not managing my disease, and I know that it can be fatal. Kids are sweet, and innocent, and they don’t always understand the seriousness behind everything. So it’s a parent’s job around the clock to make sure their kids are well taken care of. I can’t even imagine what it ’s like to send your kids off to school, to a place where you don’t have control over carb counting, food portions, snack sneaking, etc. In a way, a lot of what they go through reminded me of my parents caring for my sister when she had cancer. Care never stops, meds are around the clock, and the simplest fever lands you in the ER. I got home after a refreshing beach day with these two beautiful and strong women, and I felt compassion in my heart beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. Let me just preface this by saying that compassion and mercy are my spiritual gifts. But that day, something was different, and my heart wanted something deeper, something that forced me daily to live outside myself, and to heavily depend on The Lord for strength. God put it on my heart that day to pray about what it might look like to care for, or specifically adopt, a Type 1 child. Yeah, that probably seems absolutely ridiculous because it ’s already a full-time job just managing my own disease, but since my diagnosis, I’ve had deep, deep compassion for others who have the disease and a desire for them to feel understood. Type Ones make up only about 5 percent of the diabetic population, which means there are few that know what it ’s like to walk a day in our shoes. After hanging out with those two moms, it was like I started to feel hope in having this disease, and desire to love others boldly­— that they would feel understood. That they would know that even though diabetes can take a lot from you, it will never define you, or who you are in Christ.

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A short two and a half months after my diagnosis, I got a message from a friend back in Uganda, who told me about a little girl that was just diagnosed with Type 1 and needed a foster family. As soon as I heard those words, I knew in my heart that she was my daughter before I could even get to the end of her message. I felt God whisper in my ear, “Keary, this is your why. This is what I have been preparing you for. For a time such as this. Could you ever have imagined this is what redemption would look like for your story?” After a few months of fostering, we are now in the process of making our sweet June Bug part of our family forever. I often find myself in tears because I am so overwhelmed at God’s love for me, that He knew what my compassionate heart needed, that He knew my soul needed a purpose in this wretched disease.

I have wondered all this time why Ollie’s adoption has taken so long and why for months nothing made sense. Maybe it’s because we were meant to care for this sweet girl and this was the only way the timing would have worked out to do so. And maybe God allowed my diagnosis so that I would have good knowledge on how to help this girl with her diagnosis. What if I was never diagnosed with Type 1? Would I even consider caring for a child in that capacity? I know the answer to that is, most definitely not.

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Through His power and mercy, He redeemed a dark season for us. And He is using my diagnosis for His glory and His children in a mighty way. And He did it far sooner than I ever expected. The crazy thing is that God didn’t even have to do that for me. He doesn’t owe me an explanation, or anything, for that matter. But He loved me with a love so deep that He made beauty from ashes. My faith has increased and my understanding of His abba love is far greater than I’ve ever known. I’m humbled that He chose me to love His daughter in this way. What I love most is that June Bug doesn’t have to do this on her own. I love that she’ll see me having to check my blood sugar and give myself insulin injections every day right along side her. And I hope that gives her comfort. We may not share blood, or the same skin color, but we both know how much Type 1 stinks and I love that God gave me her to give me strength, and He gave her me to love her and walk this road with her. She is the answer to the prayer I prayed over and over those few months. And if knowing how to care for this sweet girl was the whole reason God allowed my diagnosis, I’d do it 100 times over again. What a redeeming God we serve!

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inspiration

I’m so glad that we had no idea what our year would look like because it taught me a daily dependence on The Lord. Had we not walked through all these trials, we would be lacking so much. Our faith has grown, we have an appreciation for new things like health and breath and life. We have experienced the body of Christ and community in new and beautiful ways. We have seen The Lord provide through the most unique and surprising avenues. We have seen glory beyond all compare, and are overwhelmed by His goodness and redeeming love. We have learned where to place our hope and to wait with great expectation because God is for us. May hope anchor your soul, no matter what trials you face on your path.

Perhaps you were created for such a time as this.

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heart loves You are enough and you have enough. But if you’re like us and always on the lookout for things that will enrich your life and control your chaos, you’ve come to the right place. Here are nine things we absolutely love.

1. Better Life Bag | ‘Capsule’ Tote

Rebecca Smith created her bags aiming to aid women facing poverty and unemployment in Detroit. BetterLifeBags.com

2. A Family Print Shop | Silhouette

Essie wanted to create a way for families to hold tight to memories and started her silhouette shop to capture little ones in their natural state of being. etsy.com/shop/AFamilyPrintShop

3. Link of Hearts | Bar of Goodness

Elizabeth struggled with depression for many years and aims to help others in their struggle through inspirational jewelry designs. LinkOfHearts.com

4. The Cultivated Heart Workbook

Created by Amanda Knight, this is our favorite workbook for sowing seeds of joy and growing your heart. CultivatedHeart.com

5. Pebbles and Gold | Amethyst Necklace

Jackie used agates as a way to keep herself healthy during pregnancy, and then began selling her designs to others wanting to enjoy the benefits of healing stones.

PebblesandGold.com

6. Hands Producing Hope Jewelry | Sonia Bracelets, Felicia Necklace Rebecca Gardner wanted to provide the people of developing countries with opportunities to have dignified work and provide for their families so they began teaching life skills workshops and helping individuals learn a trade.

HandsProducingHope.org

7. Mommy Mailbox | Evolve

Sarah, Ainsley, and Jamie wanted to help mothers around the world feel valued and uplifted, so they left their jobs and created a monthly subscription box to bring a little happy in the mail. Inf inity Scarf from White Plum, Menu Planner by Jack and Ella Paper, Caramel Sauce by CC Made. MommyMailbox.com

8. Lemongrass Spa | ‘Loving Care’ Gift Set

Founder, Heidi, was looking for natural products to use during pregnancy, and when she couldn’t find them, she began making her own and helping other mamas get them too. LemongrassSpa.com

9. Val Marie Prayer Journals

Experienced in designing paper, Valerie created her prayer journals to maximize her prayer time while balancing new motherhood. ValMariePaper.com You can also get a journal to accompany Volume I in our shop at TheHeartMag.com

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nashvil le star

BY LEXI LARSEN

PHOTOS BY MEGAN LEE PHOTOGRAPHY

Tell us about your love for music.

My mom says my love of music started when I was two years old in the back of her Mary Kay car singing along with Dolly’s I Will Always Love You. I knew every word and just sang away in my car seat. My love of music came from my mom’s side of the family. My grandpa was a drummer in a band and my mom was a singer growing up too. She sang with George Strait once when she was Miss Rodeo Wyoming! I think my love of music comes from them and I don’t really remember a time in my life where music wasn’t my thing. When I am making music I just feel at home whether it ’s in a studio or on stage.

Music is something that’s always there to make you smile, cry, laugh. As a person, I am an open book—I really let people see most of me, and music is how I project a lot of my emotions.

When did you know that your pursuit of a career in music was something you were really going to go for? Did it ever feel like a crazy dream?

The day I knew I wanted to be a country singer I was 10 years old. My mom was driving me once again in the pink Cadillac to dance class. We were listening to Shania, I was obsessed and I just started crying telling her I didn’t want to go to school (she laughed) or dance class anymore I just wanted to be a country singer and move to Nashville. I will never forget her telling me that I had to keep doing all of those things and go into dance class and we would talk about it when I got done.

When she picked me up I will never forget the big poster boards, brand new markers, and Country Music Weekly in the back seat! We went home and made my first dream board.

I put on the board that I would be in Nashville by the time I was 14! I then just sang everyday to a CD player and did talent shows sang at school.

At 13, I did a show in my hometown and someone heard me who introduced me to my future manager. He also got me a voice lesson with Renee Grant-Williams in Nashville.

She is Tim McGraw, Faith Hill, and Carrie Underwood’s voice coach, so it was a huge deal! We booked our first trip to Nashville and I landed in Nashville one week after I turned 15!

It was the most exciting trip and I cried when I saw the real Grand Ole Opry! I knew then that this is what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I knew it was a pretty wild dream but the amazing thing about my parents is that they believed anything was possible and never put a doubt in my mind. They always made my brother and I know that if you work hard and believe in yourself, you can achieve anything. “What you think about is what you bring about,” was a big quote in our house. My mom was and is to this day my biggest supporter, she taught me to replace the negative thoughts with gratitude to God for my blessings. I am my biggest critic so when the negative thoughts would come in that is how I would handle it. When I look back now to the dream board and the trips to Nashville that she made with me I realize how much her life has revolved around me and my brother and making our dreams come true. She is our dream weaver and the most amazing woman I know.

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What goals do you have for your music career?

When I first started traveling to Nashville, my goal was to be the next Shania Twain.

But the goal has evolved and gotten a little deeper than that now. My goal now is to continue getting to travel, play music, touch people’s lives through music, and make a good living doing what I love. I have a tour bus and an opening slot on a sold out tour on my focus board now. You know the “what you think about, you bring about” thing is still happening.

My ideal life in five years would be that I have achieved my new focus board goals and that I get to travel on that tour bus on a massive country music tour six to nine months out of the year. That I will have met the man of my dreams and he understands my dream and believes in me and loves to come on the tour bus sometimes too! Haha! If I stay where I am in the country music business I would be happy with that too because if I have learned one thing being in this business, it is that God has a plan for my life. He has put me on this path and He wouldn’t bring me this far to leave me; He would give me a new dream and new goals to put on my focus board. I trust God and His plan for my life whether that ’s on a tour bus or riding in the gold band van I have now.

What other goals and dreams do you have for your future outside of music?

I have so many dreams, oh my goodness, I can’t even think of all of them! I want to have a beautiful house with a hot husband and babies running around and then I want them to love the tour bus too! Ha! I would love to eventually be back in the Midwest, I think my heart belongs in the Black Hills of Wyoming! My mom is from there and there is no better place in the world in my opinion!

Describe a day in your life. What happens between waking up and drifting off to sleep?

My day truly is different every day.

I love to start my day with a cup of coffee and my Miracle Morning by Hal Elrod. I read my Bible and devotionals, then a couple pages from the book I am reading, which today is The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown.

Then I go to the gym—sometimes it’s the Nashville YMCA, sometimes my living room, and sometimes with my trainer Sarah Jane-Hill (she is Nicole Kidman’s trainer so that makes me feel pretty fancy sometimes).

After that I get ready for my day and either do meetings or rehearsals. Lately I have been writing a new album so I spend a lot of my days in Nashville writing songs with my friends. Writing days are my favorite kind of days besides show days. I love the writing process.

At night I am still catching up—usually relaxing, sometimes going to friends’ shows in downtown Nashville, but most nights, you’ll find me on my couch watching Friends and playing Scrabble with my grandparents.

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What do you love about yourself ? What’s your biggest personal struggle?

I think the most unique thing about me is my courage. I hadn’t thought about it much when I moved to Nashville at 18 to pursue a career in country music. I just always knew that was what I was going to do, no question about it, but when I look back now it was really brave of me. I moved alone at 18 years old, coming from a small town in Nebraska to Music City. I hadn’t even driven in the city so just packing my bags and moving only knowing three people was kind of a big deal for an 18-year-old. So I am proud of myself for having the courage to make such a brave move!

What I love the most about myself is probably my ability to be a great friend. I really feel like God gave me the gift of friendship. I love making people feel special and I love listening, hearing stories, and helping people with their journeys through life. I had to learn that not everyone needs my advice at times but I really am so glad to have as many best friends as I do. I also love my eyes and my waist! Haha!

What is my biggest personal struggle…well isn’t it funny that this question is easier than the ones above. It would be just like a woman to know what her flaws are better than her strengths. It has taken me 10 years and still a little bit today to know that my list of strengths is longer than my list of personal struggles.

I have always struggled with feeling “good enough” I think it comes from my very first heartbreak in the fourth grade from a little boy named Luke who broke up with me on

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the playground. Now there are days where I struggle with “Am I successful enough?” “Is my voice good enough?” and the big one “Is my body hot enough?” to be a country star.

These are all things that I know deep in my heart I am, but these are the questions I ask myself.

I have mentally trained my mind with a lot of practice to say YES I AM GOOD ENOUGH. I have some days where I really struggle with that and those are the days that I keep my cross necklace close by and a tissue handy.

I cry it out and put my big girl panties on and deal with it because most of it is out of my control anyway. Also, I have everything to be grateful for because I have a healthy, amazing, supportive family, a dream coming true, and God. What else do I really need?

One day when you’re old and gray, what stories will you be telling about your life?

Oh my gosh, the stories I can tell about traveling in a tan band van with five grown men for four summers all over the United States—there are a lot of good ones there!

I hope I will be able to continue telling stories about the places I have made music and touched people’s lives with a songs I’ve written.

I also hope to tell stories about that hot husband (that I still haven’t found) and our cute kids!

Today, I tell stories about my cousins who are all my best buddies and the fun we have had together, so I am sure those stories will still be being told then too!

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my life’s work B Y S A R A L A FA I L L E

PHOTOS BY BRILEY NOEL

Three days after I graduated from Colorado State University, in May of 2009, I packed up everything I owned, said goodbye to my family and friends, and moved to West ‘By God’ Virginia. And after an almost 1,500mile drive (of which I did no driving) I was ready to start a new chapter in my life. I landed an internship at West Virginia University working in the President ’s University Events office. And truth be told, if I hadn’t been in love with a sweet boy from South Carolina (who later became my husband) I probably wouldn’t have been so hell-bent on moving across the country and starting this new chapter.

Austin and I had a plan—I would move to WV, my internship would turn into a full-time position as an Events Coordinator for WVU, he would continue his education at Clemson University, we would be a mere eight-hour drive away from each other (which seemed like a cakewalk compared to the thousands of dollars in airfare over the first year of our relationship: DEN › ATL and ATL › DEN, basically on repeat for a year), we would visit every weekend, he would graduate in the spring of 2012, we would get married, and live happily ever after. Aside from the full-time position at WVU and the visiting every weekend thing—this is basically what happened. But the story I want to share is hidden within those three (very long) years, plus the three years that followed, and isn’t even about us or our love story—it ’s about me and how I put Austin’s career first (even before he had one); how that choice left me feeling unfulfilled with the work that I do, and how I managed to fill the creative void that my job was boring in my heart and find a passion for my work outside of work.

After working in the University Events office for three months as an intern and then three months as a coordinator, but on a temporary, contract-like basis, I was devastated to learn that there just wasn’t a budget to create a permanent position for me. During my exit interview with my supervisor and mentor, she said something to me

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that has stuck with me to this day—“Sara, no one will ever be able to pay you enough for how hard you work. You need to work for yourself my dear.” At the age of 22, as I was just embarking on my professional career, this was both flattering and daunting. What did this even mean? I can’t work for myself right now. I need to make money to pay my rent. Does this mean I will always be under-valued until I find the courage, time, and resources to start my own business? And what business would that even be? I had no idea. And honestly I still don’t. But what I do know, is those words have stayed with me. Those words have helped me be brave. And those words have pushed me to be better—to never stop searching for things in life that fill me up and help me find contentment.

Shortly after this brief stint at WVU, I got what I call my first “real” job. And it ’s the only “real” job I’ve ever had. I wasn’t sure that it was exactly what I wanted to do with my career but I knew I could be good at it. I got a great opportunity—and I wasn’t going to squander it. I was going to give it my all, do the best job I possibly could, and make sure I made a good reputation for myself. After all, Austin and I had at least two and a half more years of the West Virginia to South Carolina long-distance relationship dance, so I figured I might as well dig my heels in and make something of myself in WV. And that’s exactly what I did. I was the go-to girl with the whatever-it-takes attitude. My clients and my employer knew they could count on me. I advanced rather quickly in the first year, so much so that I was able to purchase my first home at 23, all by myself. I was so proud! I made that little 1,400-squarefoot townhouse my own. I painted every wall, I landscaped, I nested. I loved that place; and it was mine. And I will forever be grateful that I was able to do it on my own.

But as Austin’s graduating was fast approaching the realization that we didn’t want Morgantown, WV, to be our forever home set in. Now don’t get me wrong, Morgantown is great and will always have a special place in my heart, but

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we wanted more; we wanted more than to be big fish in a small pond, and quite honestly we wanted to be closer than an hour’s drive (the next state over, I might add) to the closest Chipotle. So that ’s when I had to take a hard look at the life I had built there and decide between my career—that I had spent the last two years building and growing, but that probably had peaked (due to the nature of my job as a government contractor), the home that we already owned and had put our stamp on, and the friends and relationships we had fostered in that small town—versus the unknown path and potential of Austin’s career. I remember, my very good (and very blunt) friend telling me that I was crazy to uproot all that to follow Austin; that I was the one with the say in what we did, because I was the one with the job, the steady income, and the house. And I remember not quite knowing how to explain to him, without completely devaluing everything I had worked so hard for, that I knew following Austin and letting my career come second was the right thing to do.

So in the months leading up to Austin’s graduation I encouraged him to apply anywhere and everywhere—and not to worry about me, we would figure it out and I would follow him wherever. And that if he didn’t find something right away, we were lucky to have a backup plan—he could just move to West Virginia until he found a job. But it didn’t take long—by the beginning of March 2012, Austin had accepted a position in Florida with a great company (where he still works), I was preparing to ask my company to go out on a limb and let me work from home—from Florida. And before we knew it, we were listing that adorable little townhouse that we had made our home and heading out on our own— together.

Working from home sounds great on the surface; and there are plenty of benefits, but it wasn’t until I was away from the social setting of an office, away from my friends and coworkers, away from my family in WV that I realized what I was doing—my job, my career—wasn’t fulfilling me the way I thought it was. Working from home and doing something you love—now that sounds great! But once you strip away the social aspect, the face-to-face communication, the water-cooler banter, the team building activities—all the things that can make a mundane job feel bearable—you realize if you don’t ABSOLUTELY love what you are doing, if it doesn’t fire you up and having you raring to go in the morning, if you don’t feel like you are making a difference—that job can quickly turn into something icky and dreadful and lonely. That’s what working from home turned into for me. After two moves to follow Austin’s career, which ultimately landed us in Texas, I am obviously grateful to work for company that has allowed me (and trusted me) to continue doing my job from wherever I need to, while still being able to encourage Austin’s goals. But that doesn’t mean what I am doing fills me up. It’s more about this delicate balance between maintaining my reputation for being a hard worker and not becoming out-of-sight, out-of-mind. And it’s exhausting.

Luckily, during my first year of working from home, I was planning our wedding—so the details, the preparation, and the joy of that filled my idle time and eased my wandering creative heart. But as those wedding planning loose ends started getting tied and there was less and less to do, I began feeling lost and creatively bankrupt.

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I needed to express myself and use my talents in ways that my job was not allowing. I needed to create pretty things that were pink and glittery—something that was not an option with the government documents I was used to working on. I needed to write creatively and emotionally, rather than technically and scientifically, the way I had been trained.

I needed something more. I needed an outlet. That’s when I started flirting with the idea of blogging. I made a half-hearted attempted at it previously, but this time felt different; I felt more motivated and committed this time. And then I read a quote somewhere (probably Instagram or Pinterest) that said, “Stop making excuses and just do things.”

And that was it. I was so inspired by that quote that I got right down to business— writing, organizing, and planning how I wanted my blog to represent me. At first I was so scared to share it with people; so for over a month I worked on it under the radar. I just wanted to make sure I was REALLY dedicated and could deliver a product that was worth sharing.

Over the course of those weeks leading up to “going live” with my blog it turned into a passion and a complete creative refuge for me. I put every free moment and unexpelled ounce of energy into making it great. And then I was vulnerable and out there for the world to critic and criticize. But I was ready. And honestly, I didn’t care about the negative things people might say—I wasn’t doing it for their approval—I was doing it for me, for my sanity, as my way of filling up. It was my story. Take it or leave it.

And now as I reflect on these first (almost) two years of blogging, I feel like it went by so quickly and at the same time, the start of my blogging journey seems like it was so long ago. A lot has happened and I have changed and grown in so many ways. I have learned a lot about myself and met some amazing people along the way. It has opened me up to new opportunities, taught me to continue to believe in myself, shown me that there is still so much I can do, and ultimately proved the words that launched me into my professional life, my adult life, the life I am living and loving right now—to be true—“No one will ever be able to pay you enough for how hard you work. You need to work for yourself my dear.” So while my real job is the one that helps fill the bank account, the things I do for myself, the things I am able to do for others—my work outside of work— that’s what fills my heart.

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HEART 143

home is with you

BY SCOTT AND ELISE GRICE P H O T O S B Y K AT I E J A M E S O N P H O T O G R A P H Y A N D M O R I A H E L I S A B E T H

Tell us about your “home.”

Home for us can be found among the forest, near the sand, and at the foot of the mountains.

In essence, “home” is wherever we are and wherever we can park our 28-foot camper. We didn’t always live this way. In fact, a year ago we had a three-bedroom house in Austin, Texas.

But we gave that all up for a home we find much more homey and one thousand times more adventurous.

How did you decide to make the leap to living on the road?

What were the reactions of others? Did they think you were a little crazy?

Did you feel a little crazy?

We decided to make the leap when we finally decided to start LIVING instead of waiting for life to happen to us. We had always wanted to travel full-time, but the thought of constantly packing, flying, and staying in different hotel rooms didn’t sound like the perfect long-term solution for us. We wanted the comforts of home, combined with the thrill of adventure. Finn, our beloved camper, gives us both.

But downsizing our lives to fit in a 28-foot space (especially when you have two dogs) wasn’t easy. It meant selling everything we owned, it meant reinventing our business to be travel friendly, and it meant trailblazing a completely new way of living. Was it scary? Yes. Did it stop us? Absolutely not.

I’m sure some people thought we were crazy, but most people just think it’s the coolest thing ever. People tell us all the time they wish they could join in. And it’s our hope that by living our own contagiously happy life, they’ll be inspired to do the same. Because, as we’re often heard to say, “Your crazy dreams aren’t that crazy.”

What is the most diff icult thing about not having a stationary home?

I think one of the most difficult things is that you’re at the mercy of the world, so to speak.

Sometimes your camper wheels catch on fire and you have to sleep behind a gas station.

Sometimes the closest laundry facility is 40 miles away. Sometimes your gas runs out (in either the car or camper) and you’re either stuck on the side of the road or freezing cold without any heat. All that to say, you have to be completely flexible and open to the adventure.

What is the absolute best thing that has come from traveling together in your trailer?

We’re never ever bored. There’s always so much to see and do and it honestly feels like every single night is date night! Whether we’re chasing waterfalls, exploring a new city, or skipping around Disney World, life is ours for the taking. We’re no longer hunched over our computers working 60-hour weeks. Our days are filled with meeting new people and living life fully and completely alive.

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What has life in the trailer brought about that you didn’t expect?

We didn’t expect to feel so connected to people. I think that’s one of the most amazing outcomes. We thought life on the road might get lonely and we’d miss the community found when you stay in the same town. But we’re hanging out with new and old friends all the time (mostly thanks to the power of Instagram). We can truly find kindred spirits anywhere we go.

How do you make the trailer, and your life together, feel like home?

We’re actually in the middle of completely renovating our camper so it feels 100 percent us.

But even without the renovation, we still feel completely at home. Because home has less to do with the walls and decorations and more to do with the people with which you’re doing life alongside.

In what ways has constantly moving helped you to cling to each other?

Because it’s always an adventure, we really have to be on the same team. There are lots of things that can go wrong when you live on the road, which is usually no one’s fault. But sometimes it can feel that way. So it ’s constantly pushing us toward grace and forgiveness.

We’re human and we don’t always get it right. But at the end of the day, we’re a team. And teams have to be in it together.

Is the traveling home life for everyone?

Absolutely not! I think it all comes down to redefining what success means to you. To us, success means waking up to the ocean outside our door, mountains outside our windows, and new cities waiting to be explored. But for some people, success won’t look like that. Which is why we always recommend sitting down with a piece of paper (and your partner and family) and really defining what your dream day looks like. Then, don’t wait for life to be perfect or for everything to fall into place. Go out and make it happen.

Is traveling how you envision the rest of your life?

What hopes and goals do you have for the future?

Yes, we really see this being the start of many travels to come. Our goal is to live on the road until we’re ready to do something else. We have no set plan on what that will be, but we have lots of ideas. But our long-term goal is to own our own tropical island in Fiji.

What impact has living and working and traveling together had on your hearts and your marriage?

I think it’s taught us that pursuing your dreams, as a couple, can be life changing. There’s a lot of advice out there about doing what YOU love. But not as many people talk about doing what WE love. When you’re a couple, you have to be in it together. There are two sets of dreams, desires, fears, etc. And instead of seeing that as a disadvantage, we see it as two hearts and two minds working toward accomplishing big things. There’s no greater feeling than having someone else fall radically in love with life right alongside you.

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What advice can you give to those feeling like they lack a place to call home?

Our encouragement is to focus less on the elements of a house and everyone else’s definition of what makes a “home.” Instead, focus on the elements that feel like home to you. Whether that’s the ocean, or the mountains, or the hustle of the city, it ’s key you surround yourself with places and people you love. Because there’s so much more to life than work and there’s so much more to a home than where you sleep at night.

If your trailer suddenly ran out of gas and you were stranded somewhere, where would you hope to be? What would you do?

This has actually happened multiple times! And when it does, we just pull over and run to the nearest gas station.

But if we had a choice about where we got stranded, I think we’d choose to be near the ocean or Disney World. True story: Coincidentally, we’ve also been stranded at both those locations. Which is why running out of gas, or doing car repairs, sometimes ends up being the coolest blessings of all.

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HEART 149

family night B Y C A R O L C H R I S T Y S H AW

PHOTOS BY CALLIE MANION PHOTOGRAPHY

Once a week, no matter what, my family comes to our house for dinner.

We have done this for as long as I can remember. Certainly for as long as the grandkids can remember!

Family night is a priority for all of us because it’s important so spend as much time with family as possible. My mother was a wonderful cook. She told us that every night we ate together we were making a memory—most of the time more than one.

Now, as a grandmother, I tell my kids and theirs the very same thing. When my granddaughter, Mallory, was little, we’d work together to roll out pie crusts. We are making a memory every time we do something, no matter how busy everyone is.

We are so close and truly care about what is going on with everyone. That combined with our sense of humor makes Sunday nights something that we always look forward to. The grandkids are always on the go, especially the older ones, but they stop on Sundays to tell us about what is happening in their lives. Family time is special, and a home-cooked meal brings us all together.

Over the years I have grown to appreciate the littlest things about our time together—requests for favorite foods when the calendar brings us to a birthday, and making dishes that I grew up watching my mother and grandmother enjoy. The memories just flood back.

My mother had no greater joy than a crowd around her table. She had such a servant’s heart and loved everyone. I loved watching her host our friends and family. They all felt so special to be in the room with her and the meals she made with love.

My maternal grandmother was a pastry cook at a local hospital when I was a little girl. I remember going to the hospital kitchen and watching her make pie crusts in huge KitchenAid type stand mixers. My paternal grandmother was famous for her gooseberry pies and heart-shaped strawberry cake on Valentine’s Day. I watched them all wide-eyed, taking everything in and learning to serve those I love.

Growing up, I had always hoped to open a pie shop. My sister, Kathy, lived in California and she always talked about Marie Calendar’s pie shop. I could just imagine myself rolling crusts all day long, cheeks covered in flour. It was a dream that never developed further. I then had short-lived plans to open a little lunch place in downtown Fort Worth that specialized in desserts, but life happened. I was needed elsewhere. And though those dreams never came to fruition, I have lived happily, sharing my cooking with everyone I love.

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I teared up when I saw the picture of me rolling out pie crusts.

Every week I use my mother’s red mixing bowl and her rolling pin that is missing a handle. She passed away early on Thanksgiving morning, 1985. She had already prepared the pies for our holiday dinner the night before. That ’s how much she loved us all. I’ve now been using her rolling pin for 30 years and it is such a treasure to have her with me every time I cook for my own family, the way she taught me to do.

There is nothing like the joy of everyone coming to our home on Sunday evenings, excited about what Nana is making, and most important—what ’s for dessert. The kids swim and play Apples to Apples. They often bring guests to dinner and we sometimes have 20–25 people around two tables. It ’s kind of like the loaves and fishes; the food seems to multiply until everyone is stuffed.

I find such great joy in serving friends and family a delicious home-cooked meal every week on family night, no matter what we’re doing.

My husband, Jim, was diagnosed with stage 4 metastatic melanoma two weeks after we had these photos taken. The week after his surgery, we had dinner together in the hospital cafeteria. The following Sunday, dinner was at my brother-inlaw’s restaurant because a nephew was singing on the patio that night. It ’s more about who we’re with than where we’re eating. We always prioritize being together.

The night these photos were taken, we knew it ’d be our last meal together in our home. We’d lived on Mistletoe Heights for 15 years, and the memories we’ve made on that lawn and inside those walls are too many to count. I can close my eyes and smell the way it felt for us all to be there—the grandkids playing on the lawn, babies waiting for dinner to be ready and sneaking dessert before we’d even had the main course, my dad reading The Christmas Story to all 45 of us gathered around the big dining room table.

I’ve kept that recording since his passing and play it every Christmas. We’ve all shared so much love inside that house.

Oatmeal Cake

Kathy Christy Ford 1 stick margarine 1¼ cups water 1 cup oatmeal 1 cup sugar 1 cup brown sugar 2 eggs 1 teaspoon vanilla 1⅓ cup flour 1 teaspoon baking soda Topping 1⅓ cup pecans, finely chopped 1⅓ cup coconut 1 stick butter, melted ⅓ cup + 2 tablespoons sugar ¼ cup + 1 tablespoon evaporated milk 1. Bring margarine and water to a boil 2. Add oatmeal, stir, and let sit for 20 minutes 3. Mix in sugar, brown sugar, eggs, and vanilla. Stir well Add dry ingredients 4. Cook for 30 minutes at 350° in a 9×13 pan 5. Mix together ingredients for topping 6. Spread evenly on cake while hot Cover with foil immediately

I hope the babies and grandbabies will always remember fun times at Nana and Bumbo’s house. Whether they cook big fancy meals together one day when I’m gone, or just order pizza and sit around the table, I hope I taught them the importance of sharing time together and loving and laughing. More than anything I hope they remember how much they are loved and how special they each are to us.

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Pie Crust

Chicken Pie

Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream

3 cups flour

3 cubes butter

6 eggs, beaten

1 cup Crisco shortening

3 tablespoons flour

1½ cups sugar

1 teaspoon salt

½ cup chicken broth

8–9 tablespoons cold water

6 ounces heavy cream

1 large can evaporated milk (PET brand)

Frances Christy

1. Mix flour and salt in mixing bowl 2. Using pastry blender, cut in Crisco until pea size 3. Add cold water and mix with fork 4. Form ball with hands Don’t over mix 5. Roll out on floured pastry sheet 6. Bake at 375–400° until golden brown Makes 2 crusts

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Carol Christy Shaw

3 chicken breasts, cooked and diced 1 can peas 1 can diced carrots 1. Melt butter in hot skillet and whisk in flour 2. After well mixed, add chicken broth and continue whisking 3. Whisk in heavy cream to form basic cream sauce 4. Add diced chicken, peas, and carrots 5. Pour into a baking dish and cover with pie crust 6. Bake at 350° for about 40 minutes or until golden brown

Carol Christy Shaw

1 can sweetened condensed milk (Eagle brand) 1 pint heavy cream 1. Mix eggs and sugar well and pour into freezer can 2. Add milk and cream (add to the fill line) 3. Freeze in electric freezer Variation: Add small package Oreo cookies (broken) or replace cookies with Butterf ingers (broken)

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Carol begins preparing things sometimes on Saturdays. As soon as she gets home from church on Sunday she begins to f inish up the preparation of the meal. We usually get called to the buffet with about 10 minutes left in the Sunday afternoon golf tournament. Two or three of us usually drag our feet a bit or pause the recording. Everyone has a plate.

Those that go back for seconds—about 60 percent of us—f ind ourselves miserable later in the evening from overeating. Desserts are excellent and are often sampled from the main meal. Forks go plateto-plate during the meal and breads and condiments are ‘slud down the table’ with due respect to Dizzy Dean, circa 1950.

P H O T O B Y C A RY N N O E L

love

I love you, Jim Bumbo Shaw

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HEART 157

big love

BY RHIANNON BOSSE

PHOTOS BY ELIZABETH IN LOVE

When I think of the legacy I want to leave behind long after I leave this world, I hope that legacy includes a few specific and select details. As a planner by trade and a planner by nature, naturally I’ve thought ahead to what I hope my life will look like when I’m an old lady, ready to share my last sweet breath.

I’d love to be remembered for my passions for florals. How holding a fresh bloom in my hand could make me come alive and make me feel so complete. Like something so fleeting and lovely in my hands was simply an extension of the things I felt inside my soul. Every time I create something out of florals and give it away to someone else I feel as if I am handing over a sliver of my heart. That will of been hopefully as powerful to others as it has been to me.

Without any secret recipes or cooking skills to make me stand out from the rest when it ’s my time to go, I would hope those I’m leaving behind would remember me for my sense of humor. A unique combination of dry sarcasm learned from my parents and yet so graciously sprinkled in with my ability or rather my weakness to be highly sensitive. A weakness at times when I take things too personally, a strength in times where I can be intuitive about others’ feelings and help provide whatever it is they’re missing.

More importantly, or rather more simply, I hope everyone remembers how well I loved on others.

While I’m so very flawed and know I was divinely created to be as such, I fully believe in loving big and pride myself in doing my best to make that a reality each day.

When I pinpoint where this all started, like how some would pinpoint the time they fell in love with their spouse or the moment they knew their life would never be the same, I go back to my childhood. Some of my most treasured moments throughout my life include the times I received gifts from my mother. Everything from the way

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her gifts were wrapped, tied up with string, and presented in dainty boxes and bags, to the carefully and purposefully selected gift items themselves, resonated with my soul.

Even the blush pink themed Easter basket when I was seven years old—complete with new ballet shoes, a neutral colored leotard, and some other small matching items presented in a big beautiful matching basket—left me with a sense of appreciation for the gift of loving on others and loving them well. Those days, most kids my age were off having sleepovers after their dance recitals yet I was busy appreciating the care and thought that went into everything gifted to me from my mom. I wanted to make others feel the same way I did when she handed me these things.

It was never a verbal lesson or something that was specifically mentioned to me at any point but I learned early on the value of a beautiful card and a meaningful message penned carefully inside. A card was always selected to look as beautiful as both the wrapping paper around the gift and the ribbon firmly wrapped around the paper. Often times the presentation of the gift was simply to foreshadow the beautiful sentiment on the inside. A buck against the old saying, ‘It’s on the inside that counts.’ The outside always counted. Always will.

Even as an adult the birthday and holiday cards that arrive from my mom are handwritten in her distinctive cursive writing reminding me of the time it must have taken her to sit down and intentionally shape out each letter of her perfectly phrased greeting. Since I moved away from home over 10 years ago at the age of 18, I’ve been saving every single card from her tucked away in an IKEA box in my office. That box of cards would be the first to come with me in a fire after my family, our pup, and my grandmother’s wedding rings I was gifted a few days before she passed.

In a physical sense beyond the love language of gifts, there were many lessons to learn throughout my life. I remember as a young girl, watching my mom pull over on the side of a busy road to pull out a blanket from our trunk and hand it over, without a pause, to someone who needed it more

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than we did. In high school, we wrapped sandwich after sandwich to put in brown Kraft bags that I had lovingly adorned with messages in Crayola markers like, ‘You are beautiful!’ and ‘You are loved.’ That night the bags would be handed out to the working girls downtown who probably wouldn’t see another meal like that until my mom came around again with her volunteer team. I never understood what it was these women really did but knew enough to know these messages meant as much as the food inside. After I graduated university and my husband and I spent a week along the California coast with my parents, I watched my mom quickly and discreetly fill her purse with fresh apples from the lobby bowl of the Four Seasons before smiling to myself because I knew those wouldn’t be for her. Or us. Within 10 minutes of leaving the hotel lobby to adventure around the city, all of those apples were given to those camped out on corners of the street, even if some of them were too ashamed to look up from where they sat to say thank you or show their gratefulness. It was about the love with which it was delivered, and the intention behind it all—loving big.

As an adult, the language of love and loving intentionally on others has not been lost on me. In fact, it’s so deeply rooted in my character that this way of serving others fuels the majority of the things I do, say, think, and believe in. Both professionally and personally I make it a mission to love big on others even in times when that feels hard, uncomfortable, and difficult. I try my best to always put love first, even when that’s the last thing I feel like giving toward a situation. I try to think logically and professionally in situations at work because my responsibilities as a business owner require me to; but to also always allow my heart to soften as much as I can in times of hurt, disappointment, or frustration. Together a soft heart and strong mind can go the distance.

Yet the funny part about the language of love is for as good as it feels to love well, it’s certainly not always that easy.

It’s hard to forgive—even if they’ll never know it—the person who dragged you through an abusive relationship more than a decade ago and left a small scar on your heart. For a long time you may have walked around feeling unworthy of love and fearful of being damaged goods to others.

It’s physically painful to go through the process of softening your heart toward someone who deeply hurts you. Forgiveness can be a hard thing even for someone who loves really big and without restrictions. I believe that’s why it’s said that forgiveness is often more for you than it is for the other person.

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It’s an ugly feeling to act on your negative emotions before you give yourself ample time to settle your thoughts and then shortly thereafter, carefully and outwardly love on others; whether that be in times of traffic jams, bad weather, getting less than you think you deserve, rude customer service, or a silly disagreement with your spouse.

The littlest things that trigger the red flags in our hearts can sometimes be the biggest barricades to pouring out more love.

It’s draining to let a grudge grow into a permanent growth on your heart, one that suffocates the potential for greatness. Sometimes a grudge can get so heavy and big and awkward that you forget anything good ever existed there in the first place.

But love.

Love changes all of this.

Love makes the difference. Love changes relationships, turns lives around, lifts heavy burdens so they become obsolete. Even in small doses, love can be grand. Even in times of sadness and despair, love can make a difference. Love can be a card in the mail, a smile at the bank toward the next patron, or a piece of turkey and cheddar carefully placed between two pieces of Wonder bread.

As I write this to you, I’m about four months pregnant with the biggest blessing, joy, and accomplishment of my life. Half of the time I have to remind myself there’s a little person inside of me, a person my husband and I will ultimately be responsible for when it comes to teaching all we know about loving selflessly and with intention. That often feels like a bigger job than I’m equipped to handle, but I feel confident that come January when that baby is placed on my chest, I will have never felt more sure of one thing.

The other half of the time I silently hope and pray that this baby will feel just an ounce of the love I have for him or her already because I swear the love that my heart can’t hold just overflows out of my soul down into the space of my stomach where this blessing will continue to grow for the next few months.

That’s the thing about love! Just a little bit of it can turn into a lot and it can seep into others’ lives. Love is contagious. It leaves permanent marks on people’s hearts and causes a ripple effect among others around us. If there’s anything I can give back as a mother myself and as a wife, daughter, sister, friend, colleague, and believer, it’s not only to give really awesome gifts like my own mother did (I feel good about my skill set here and like to think I’m a pretty great gift giver myself ) but it’s to love on others really well and without boundaries (I feel even better about that).

Sometimes the best legacies are the ones built around the best kind of love.

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BRADLEY JAMES PHOTOGRAPHY

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the myth of joy B Y J O A N N A S E RT H

P H O T O S B Y R A C H E L LY N P H O T O G R A P H Y

My oldest son turns 10 this year, which means I’ve been parenting for nearly a decade. It’s amazing how 10 years can seem like such a long time when it’s really not. There are days when I feel like a seasoned parenting pro and other days when I mutter under my breath, “It ’s like I’m brand new at this.” The only constant in all of these unpredictable years of mothering has been the persistent, lingering notion that I am doing it all wrong.

Nary a day has passed since my newborn son was placed gingerly in my arms that I haven’t thought to myself, “I could do better, I should do better.” From the very start of my parenting journey, the doubt has piled on.

I should nurse him another three months.

I shouldn’t put him in daycare.

I should take the stuffed animals out of his crib.

I shouldn’t put him in f ront of the television.

I shouldn’t let him use a pacif ier.

I should potty train him.

I should spend more time with him before his brother arrives.

my husband stayed behind to work. A long drive coupled with near-constant fighting amongst the occupants of the car left me completely spent. I arrived at my parents in an energy deficit that I couldn’t restore.

Over dinner on the last night of my brief stay, exhausted but engaged in casual conversation with my mother, father, and sister, I described the raising up of small children as being “in the trenches,” because there were days that certainly felt more like warfare than parenting. My kids were at an age where just simply getting through each hour sometimes seemed like a remarkable feat. That laborintensive, physically exhausting portion of parenthood was where I found myself.

The thoughts are always there, to this day, even if the addition of two more children has released me from the luxury of only fixating on my oldest child. As they all age, I find new things to feel uncertain about.

I should pay closer attention to their screen time.

I should read to them more.

I shouldn’t let them play any video games.

I should practice flash cards with them more often.

I should be helping them with their homework.

I should send them outside to play in the f resh air.

I shouldn’t just pretend to pay attention when they tell me stories.

I should send them to learn an instrument.

I should be serving them more vegetables.

I shouldn’t feed them so many f ruit snacks.

I am constantly thinking about the things that I should and shouldn’t be carrying out as a parent. The worry over whether I am doing an adequate job as their mother is persistent, like some kind of a shadow that I can’t seem to shake.

And, the biggest doubt of them all, the most nagging of all of my parental insecurities, the thought that plays on repeat in my head, sometimes hourly during the summer months, is this: “I should be enjoying this more. Why aren’t I enjoying this more?”

One summer not too long ago, when my children were ages 8, 5, and 2, I took them on a trip to visit my parents while

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My mother, who raised four children of her own, took umbrage with my description. She explained how mothering her children proved to be such a joyful experience. How she remembered parenting small kids as full of fun and discovery and deep satisfaction. She described the house I grew up in as teeming with not only her kids but also the children of neighbors, an open door policy. She described teaching us how to bake, how to sew and described making platter after platter of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

My mother embraced the demands, the workload, and the chaos of parenting. Most of all, being a mother brought her immense joy.

It ’s hard not to compare and contrast my parenting journey with my mother’s. In so many ways, we are strikingly similar. But in this one way, this really big way, we are not.

It ’s not as easy for me to find the joy in motherhood in the same manner in which she did.

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After our fateful conversation that summer evening, I grappled with why things are so different for me. Why couldn’t I find the immense joy that my mother described? I definitely have moments of joy—lots of moments of joy—but I don’t know if I would characterize my experience raising three young children as pure joy. The nagging feeling that I wasn’t finding enough happiness and pleasure in motherhood fed into the already uncertain arena in which I parent my children.

However, on a fundamental level, raising children today is so dramatically different than what raising children looked like during my mother’s parenting era, four decades earlier.

From the very beginning, my mother’s journey was dramatically different than my own, starting with her age when she built her family. When my mother was 40, her youngest child (me) was already in third grade. Now, 40 myself, I just wrapped up potty training my preschooler. I had my children in my 30s. My mother had her children in her 20s. I believe that decade makes a big difference. I am weary at 40. I seem to have lost all of that energy I remember having in my 20s.

Maybe the 20s mom version of me wouldn’t have minded finger paints and glitter and cookie decorating and bread baking. The 40s mom version of me thinks that those things make huge messes and can’t we just color with crayons instead?

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Also, as is more common now, my husband and I have an untraditional arrangement in regard to household duties.

While my husband excels at laundry, dishes, and toddler tantrum management, I handle every aspect of our finances, from simple checkbook balancing and bill paying, all the way to retirement, estate planning, and investments. I complete every tax return, schedule every oil change for our cars, coordinate every doctor’s appointment for our family, and register every child for every sporting season. I handle every piece of paper and mail that comes in our front door.

Every one. My responsibilities now are different than that of my mother’s.

In addition, for most of my years since leaving full-time employment to care for my children, I’ve also managed to work part-time. The first few years were spent working in my field of study and, most recently, I’ve worked parttime writing. My mom didn’t head back to work until I was in high school. She devoted every part of every day to mothering. I continue to stressfully straddle two worlds, unable to commit wholly to one for fear of giving up the other entirely.

As a child, I enjoyed freedoms that I would never dream of extending to my own kids today. As a little girl, I used to spend hours at the park at the end of our city block in downtown Columbus, Ohio, with only my older siblings as my keepers. I can’t imagine my children enjoying this type of independence at their age. It ’s become an eyes-on at all times existence. I’m not sure there’s more danger lurking nowadays but the threats are more obvious. My standard operating mode as a mother seems to always be set to, “ALERT,” which is absolutely mentally exhausting. I don’t enjoy the same freedoms as mothers from generations ago that could point to an open back door in the morning and not expect to see their children until dinner.

There are also all of the outside commitments present today that weren’t present a few decades ago. I’m expected to start my wobbly toddler in soccer, where their only goal is to remain upright. There are spring sports, fall sports, and winter sports. There are probably summer sports, too, but I just haven’t been told what they are yet. After school clubs, homework, and enrichment opportunities abound. I am forever loading and unloading children in and out of my car.

There is always something happening somewhere that takes us away from our home. The pace can best be described as frantic.

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In this era of modern mothering, the most influential change has been the advent of social media and its deafening commentary on the right and wrong way to parent. There is an incessant stream of information and images telling us what our home life should look like, what my mothering should look like. I should craft with my children, I should teach them a foreign language, their rooms should look put together but casually messy, they should wear this brand of clothing and this brand of shoes.

It ’s always on, this ribbon of data, pumping us mothers full of information on where our efforts fall short.

Is my joy as a mother lessened just because times have changed?

Because life is more complicated now? Because I’m an older, busier, more harried version of my mother? Because Pinterest exists? Yes, I think that’s part of it. But, it’s also more than that.

Where my mom sees joy, I see survival. Joy versus survival. My experience as a mother vacillates between these extremes. There are certainly parenting moments of tremendous joy and happiness but there are also moments when you just have to put your head against the wind and plow through to the other side. Like the two faces of a coin.

Joy and survival. I believe with my whole being that these two emotions can coexist in motherhood.

When my son watches the Christmas tree light up for the very first time and I spy the awe and wonderment in his eyes? Joy. Two weeks later when he is writhing on the floor in the throes of a tantrum because he doesn’t understand that Christmas presents are only to be opened on Christmas? Survival.

When the principal pulls us aside at a school picnic to tell my husband and myself that our youngest son is a delightful addition to the Kindergarten class? Joy. When, later that same night, that same son cries inconsolably for many, many minutes because we refuse to buy him an actual, real, live giraffe? Survival.

Seeing my husband’s elderly mother meet her infant granddaughter for the very first time? Joy. The five-state road trip and four-night single hotel room stay with three small children that it took to make that moment happen?

Pure survival.

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The relief in knowing that our oldest son’s vision is crisp and sharp? Unrepentant joy. The seven surgeries and years of doctor’s appointments and rehabilitation it took to repair his congenital cataracts?

Absolute survival.

Having the means to fill my cart at the grocery store with healthy, beautiful food to feed to my family?

Grateful joy. Having to take three kids with me in order to get the shopping done? Ultimate survival.

Watching as my kids push away that beautiful food and ask for a peanut butter bagel instead? Annoying survival.

That first really cold night of fall when the wind is blowing and the sky goes dark early? When we draw the curtains, light a fire in the fireplace and snuggle under blankets reading books? Lovely, lovely joy.

When my kids wander out of their bedrooms one by one each morning with sleepy eyes and that one cheek that’s still warm from their pillow? When I scoop them up and hug them tight and they lay their whole bodies into mine? Well, that ’s not joy at all. That’s something else entirely. That’s pure bliss.

We should all have permission to discover our own kind of joy in mothering. It’s okay if some of us struggle with finding happiness amongst the chaos and the tantrums and the general din of parenting small children. It’s okay if some of us have awful, terrible days that we hope we will forget. Parenting isn’t an all or nothing gig. It’s not all joy or no joy. There is an awful lot of gray in there. And, perpetuating the myth that we’re mothering incorrectly simply because we’re not happy enough does a huge disservice to us all.

My most fervent wish is that my heart remembers both the joy and the trial of mothering. That I can look back on my years of teaching and leading and loving my children with both the warmth of joyful gratitude and the triumphant knowledge that I simply survived.

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put yourself out there M A K I N G M E A N I N G F U L F R I E N D S H I P S A S A N A D U LT

Adulthood brings with it new opportunities but also a slew of awkward things we were never prepared for, including making friends. It can be tough to introduce yourself when you feel like other people already have it figured out, or when you’re so busy balancing work and sleep and family that it feels like there’s never enough time to reach out. Despite all that, here’s the big truth: friendships fill holes that you may not even realize are there. Yes, making new friends seems like a big chore, but when you consider all the positivity that friends can bring, it’s worth putting in the work.

JESSICA PEREZ PHOTOGRAPHY

1. Fight through the awkward

Isn’t small talk the worst? Meeting new people and trying to think of surface topics is agonizing, especially if you’re an introvert. But just like anything worth doing, an awkward stage is pretty normal. Cindy Crawford didn’t get where she is without some middle school growing pains including high-waters and braces. And just look how she turned out! If you think about any solid relationship you have now, you had to go through the tough parts to get to the good stuff. Push through the discomfort, and keep engaging in conversations. Small ones will lead to big ones.

2. Put in the work

As we age, the opportunities and places to meet new people grow slimmer. So instead of hoping to make a new friend in the lunch line, we’ve got to be a little more proactive. We have to ask for help. Is there someone in your life who seems to have a great group of friends? You could let fear stop you, thinking, “She’s got enough friends already, she doesn’t need me,” or you could remind yourself that a person who is good at making friends could certainly help you do the same. What about people at work? Can you have coworkers introduce you to people and activities in your area? Can you go to a networking event with the sole purpose in mind to connect with other people? Consider the places you go every day: is there a way you could meet someone else at school drop-off or the gym? Friends aren’t just going to fall in your lap, you’ve got to get out and make them.

3. Try something new

Making friends while trying a new activity means putting yourself on the line twice in one night, but it ’ll be worth it. Have you always wanted to try Zumba? What about attending a new church?

Take an art class, join a committee at work, or volunteer somewhere locally. Remind yourself that if you got through sixth grade, you can certainly get through sweating it out to 90s pop music at the gym. Even better than going it alone, invite a new friend to try something new along with you. The newness of the experience will be something the two of you can draw from along the road to building a solid friendship.

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4. Spend time in person

In our ever-growing digital age, it’s easy to feel connected to people without actually seeing them. Sometimes we find ourselves calling contributors friends around the Heart office, and then realize we’ve never actually met in person. It ’s awesome to feel like someone really gets you when they comment on a post, or to believe that we’re making an effort by firing off a quick text, but none of those things are enough to stand up to the hardest of days. People need to see your face and to hear your voice—they need to know that they are worth your time. And you deserve to feel the same way. We get it: sometimes it feels like time isn’t something we have. But here’s the thing, how we spend time is a choice, so if we take ownership of that and the way we use our time, we realize that it ’s no one else’s fault that we don’t make time for what and who we love.

Meet for a quick coffee, invite someone over for a meal, do your grocery shopping with a buddy, drop off a shiny new chapstick and give a quick hug. Making the effort takes precious time, but it ’ll do wonders for the both of you.

5. Be real

Speaking of rewards, having a friend you can be real with is one of those things that is just priceless. And do you know how you get to this point? By making the leap.

The transition from the weather to heartache can be an awkward one to bridge, and of course you don’t want to tell someone your life story the first time you meet, but when you put enough chips down to be vulnerable, your new friend will never forget about it. Realness is what connects us.

It ’s what helps us feel that we aren’t alone and that even though they may not have been through the same thing, other people can empathize and help us to feel better about our truths. Get a little brave and open up to someone; your friendship will grow leaps and bounds when you share a little heart.

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interrupted fairy tale

BY MEGAN WILLIAMS

PHOTOS BY BUTTER STUDIOS A N D H AY L E Y R A E P H O T O G R A P H Y

I couldn’t stop watching him.

He stood across f rom me at the back of court #3 in baggy, gray sweat pants, with a relaxed conf idence that made him seem approachable, but maybe a bit too cool for those of us in tennis whites.

He swung a perfect forehand stroke at any ball that was hit in his direction. Then he would saunter to the back of the court, giving enough space for the others around him to take their turn. I couldn’t tell if he was friends with the people he was playing tennis with, or if he was just friendly. Those who stood near were included in his smiles, his jokes—and his cough.

“I’m Chad,” he said when it was his turn to introduce himself to the group.

“I’m Megan,” I said, working hard not to look over at him in case he was looking at me.

When I heard my dad say, “I’m Tony,” I thought it was safe to look in Chad ’s direction again.

Big, soft, brown eyes smiled back at me.

— A week later my junior tennis friend Alyssa called. “Hey—did you meet a guy named Chad at the coaching course you were just at?” she asked.

It turned out that she worked at a local tennis court with Chad. “ Yeah,” I replied.

“Well he just walked in and quit. He’s been diagnosed with cancer.”

“What?! What kind of cancer?”

“Something to do with his blood,” Alyssa explained.

I was sitting on the deck with my dad, who was eavesdropping while reading the paper. When I hung up and repeated the news, all he said was “Ah, shit.”

My dad hardly ever swore.

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Paint us a picture of your love story with Chad. How did you meet and fall in love? How did you feel when things were new?

Chad and I met for the first time at a tennis coaching course. I was still in high school and he had already graduated college (there is nearly a 10-year age difference between us). But once I graduated and went to college, we met again at a tennis club after several years of not seeing one another. I can’t say we fell hard and fast in the beginning, but we were drawn to each other from the start—and as the years went on, our affection for one another deepened, as did our love.

When did you know that the two of you were in it for the long haul?

I was in Europe after college, traveling and searching for job opportunities. But at the end of each awesome day, Chad was the one I wanted to call and share it all with, wishing he was with me to experience all that I had. That’s when I realized he was where my heart was.

Talk to us about Chad ’s diagnosis.

Chad was diagnosed before we started dating, but when we were told his cancer had come back a few years after we’d been together, it was heartbreaking—but I never actually thought it would be the end of him.

— Chad drifted in and out of exhausted sleep for the rest of the night while his dad and I talked in the hall. He had already heard the news. I optimistically forecast what ‘the end ’ might look like for Chad and me: I thought we might have a few weeks or months together to ‘coast out’ on maintenance drugs or something. We would go home, maybe sneak away for a weekend, enjoy each other while we could, talk again, kiss again, and snuggle again. I thought we could f ind a beach somewhere and get married.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Clark said that, given Chad ’s condition, the doctor was predicting that ‘the end ’ would be in a few days. We were on the 15th floor, and it felt like my heart fell to the basement.

I cannot believe it has come to this.

Our fairy tale is ending.

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Talk to us about the hardest parts of dealing with Chad ’s cancer Watching someone be poisoned from the inside out is horrible, because that’s all you really can do—watch.

You support, you try and understand, but no matter how much you “do” you can’t fix it. You can’t take away their cancer. There were so many times I wish I could have given him, even an afternoon of relief, but because that’s not possible, you get them water, you watch a movie, and you snuggle up, hoping it helps a tiny bit.

It seems that in terrible times, goodness somehow shines a light. In what ways did you grow as a result of what happened?

For me, the light that came from the darkness of cancer is trying to make the best use of the good days, the days where energy is in surplus and you have freedom from clinic and fatigue. Those days, we fell harder in love, went on a road trip, and talked about the future together. For me, those small things were what made our life and our love together BIG.

What are the greatest things Chad taught you?

Chad taught me a lot, but not in an “I’ve got cancer, let me spread my knowledge” kind of way. Some of the smallest things I learned are what I used most often. He taught me how to lift my elbow on my forehand in tennis and that you should clean windows using a circular wiping motion. The big things I learned from our time together are now part of my daily mentality—the biggest thing is that I should never take my body and health for granted.

He pops into my thoughts nearly every day, sometimes while driving, sometimes while running—but I feel he’s around.

How will you preserve Chad ’s legacy while making your own for the future?

Chad would have been so pissed off if cancer would have killed me too. So now, living on, I try and be the same person he fell in love with, living my life as he did; laughing every day, traveling whenever I can, making the odd, inappropriate joke and spending time by the beach.

Chad and I had been kissing each other for f ive years, but there was something about this one—my chest f illed with butterflies, like it was our f irst.

It lasted for what felt like minutes, and when it was over, I was weak in the knees.

We didn’t talk much after.

I remember looking over at him and realizing how much energy it took out of him to kiss me like that. How important it must have been to him to give me a kiss as memorable as that one was, transcending all the “Do you mind…” and “Can you help me with…” practical moments of our shared battle against his disease.

For those few minutes, in that kiss, Chad wasn’t sick, and I wasn’t just there caring for him.

We were in love. It was pure and uncomplicated. Two people, in love, forever.

I hope that our book, Our Interrupted Fairy Tale, is a legacy piece for us both.

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the new lyweds

BY KARLEY KIKER

PHOTOS BY MISS JEE’S PHOTOGRAPHY

Approximately two months into marriage, one of my evenmore-newlywed friends called and asked if I had any advice to share, particularly on the subject of intimacy. I was thrilled. See, I had saved myself for marriage—that’s the Southern Baptist, True Love Waits way of saying that at age 13, I committed to abstaining from sex until after saying “I do”—and so this was the first time I could really speak to a subject that had, until very recently, been a complete mystery.

Since my friend had also worn a promise ring on her left hand until exchanging it for a wedding band, I knew exactly what she wanted to know post-honeymoon: Is this what the whole sex thing is really all about?

From my pedestal of six weeks of additional marriage experience, I shared with her that it ’s one of those things that gets better and better as time goes by; that with practice, it becomes more like the way you imagined it would be. Most importantly, I told her that really enjoying it requires forgetting all about the passionate kissingin-the-rain scene in The Notebook—i.e., letting go of expectations.

Saying goodbye to imaginary marriage and embracing the real-life journey of “two becoming one” encompasses everything I’ve learned (and am continuing to unpack) after two years of newlywed-ing. I am by no means a marriage expert, but I am the uncontested authority of my own relationship. So just for fun, let’s explore a few additional areas in which I’ve encountered expectation-shattering moments after exchanging the title of fiancé for wife. Who knows? Maybe you can relate!

Role-Play Not that kind of role-play. I’m talking about the question of who does what and when they’re supposed to do it— responsibilities like taking out the trash, doing the laundry, and cleaning the kitchen. Our pastor warned us about

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conflict that can arise from misunderstandings in this arena during one of our premarital counseling sessions.

Honestly, I thought the idea was ridiculous—we’re talking who’s cooking dinner, not instances of infidelity—until I found myself in the middle of a fight with my husband, Taylor, about who is “supposed” to drive the car when we’re traveling basically anywhere.

In my family, my dad drives the car and my mom rides shotgun. Period. The end. By contrast, Taylor’s mom has no problem captaining the car for the duration of major and minor trips alike. So imagine how deeply offended I became when he expressed frustration over the fact that I never offer to take the wheel! That’s a man’s job, I thought.

Meanwhile, he was equally offended because he felt that I was treating him like a chauffeur. Especially when I would flip through Instagram instead of having a conversation about our day or helping him decipher Siri’s directions.

The point? Our disagreement didn’t end in deciding that one person was right and the other was wrong (minus my husband’s feelings about the Instagram thing—he was totally right about that). Our misunderstanding dissolved when we entered into conversation about the different expectations we each had due to the different ways we’d been raised. Marriage 101.

In Your Dreams For so many women—myself included—getting married is a long-held dream. But what happens when, after that dream has been fulfilled, it feels as though other dreams that were birthed during a time of singleness are put on hold, or worse…dying? You’ve always wanted a master’s degree, but it ’s not exactly in the joint budget. He’s been passionate about traveling the world since he was a kid, but you’re ready to put down roots and start a family. Something (and somebody) has got to give, but when it’s your dream that’s on the chopping block, feelings of hurt, resentment, and defensiveness are bound to follow.

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This is where Taylor and I are learning that it ’s absolutely essential for us to grasp the concept of “dying to self.”

Remembering that the world—and our marriage—doesn’t revolve around just one of us. As individuals, do we want our deepest desires and wildest dreams to be fulfilled?

Absolutely. But our joint dream of doing life together forever takes precedence, and that requires (frequent) compromise from both parties.

Money Matters We’ve all heard that financial issues are the leading cause of divorce, so let’s pay attention to dollars and cents for a second. Is the money yours, mine, or ours? Who sets the budget? Who pays the bills? Do online orders from Amazon need to be discussed before the credit card information is entered and the shipment is on its way? (Asking for a friend.)

When I was single, I went to Starbucks almost every day during my work break. I also spent a significant amount of my income on dining out, and treating myself to an occasional cute top wasn’t unheard of. But the way I spent my single-girl earnings looks nothing like the way my marital money is handled. Retirement plans, emergency funds, and bills-on-bills-on-bills all require an infusion of capital. Too much restriction, and chances are that one or both of you will feel like you’re not having much fun at all.

Too little saving, and anxiety about emergencies that may or may not happen in the unforeseen future is bound to creep in. Our solution? To create a joint budget that reflects what matters to us most as a couple rather than as individuals, and to leave enough elasticity to accommodate spur-ofthe-moment date nights and/or surprise root canals. The bottom line? Don’t let money come between you and your honey.

The Language of Love Before we got married, Taylor lied to me—a big fat one that I didn’t see coming until I was standing in the middle of it a few months (or was it minutes?) after tying the knot. “My number one love language is physical touch,” he had previously announced during premarital counseling.

Our pastor had assigned The Five Love Languages as reading material, and just a few weeks before walking the aisle, it was time to share our results. “Mine is words of affirmation,” I responded.

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Like I said, Taylor lied. But then again, my proclamation wasn’t exactly 100 percent accurate either. While I do crave verbal praise (#onlychild), I’m also pretty darn touchy-feely and I like to hold hands—always. Basically, I am a happy camper if my husband tells me I’m smart and pretty while simultaneously giving me a massage.

Although Taylor thought his love language was physical touch, we later learned that his results were skewed due to the fact that sex was off the table during our engagement.

After the honeymoon, it became apparent that his true love language is quality time. Which completely explains why Instagramming in the car is such a no-no for us. It hurts his feelings when I’m physically there without being mentally and emotionally present, just like it rubs me the wrong way when he refuses to rub my back. Figuring this stuff out takes more than just hearing your spouse—it takes intentionally listening, and furthermore, it takes responding in the way that they need to be responded to. The process of learning how to love your spouse in the way that they can best accept it is often difficult and counterintuitive, which is why I think it must be the PhD of marriage. But when you finally start to grasp it, the reward is seeing your best friend’s heart come to life. There is no greater feeling!

In summary, the following is an absolute truth: It is possible to get so caught up in the table linens and flower selections of the wedding planning process that you actually forget that the whole point of the party is marriage. During your engagement, you can actually lose sight of the fact that the whole purpose of the energy you’re expending has nothing to do with showing your friends a good time, and everything to do with promising to stick with your spouse until death do you part. Continuing to love when he isn’t even likable. Forgiving when the past is weaponized and drawn into an argument that’s taking place in the present.

The moral of the story? Real life doesn’t look like cheesy engagement ring commercials and romantic dramas starring Ryan Gosling. The wedding planning process doesn’t do a whole lot in the way of preparing the bride and groom for the day-to-day experience of marriage. And the producers of The Notebook cut all of the scenes featuring washing the dishes, going to the gym, making disastrous Pinterest recipes, and doing all of the ordinary things that ordinary people do. It’s not a wonder that unmet expectations have been known to lead to questions like, “Did I make a mistake when I said I’d marry this guy?” That’s foundation-shaking stuff, and it can be difficult to rebound from.

To avoid this pit of despair, I have to confront the fact that I will eventually lose a bit of my bride-to-be luster due to unexpected times in my marriage. There will be times I’m not quite prepared for, and times when I feel overlooked and hurt. Times when I feel that I’m in completely over my head, that I’m worn out and tired, that I’m sick to death of saying “I’m sorry.”

Conversely, I know there will be seasons that exceed my expectations. Seasons when my husband and I can’t get enough of each other. Seasons when he buys me roses for no reason, and I feel that if my passion grows any bigger my heart might burst. And in all of these times and in all of these seasons, I think I will be living out the realest, truest version of the story that began on my wedding day.

There is something so incredibly beautiful, so astounding, so fulfilling about putting fairy tales to bed and embracing

every nook and nuance of your own imperfect love story.

Right now, at the very beginning of my marriage journey, I’m choosing to take joy in dinners of frozen pizza and bagged Caesar salad from Kroger. I’m choosing to remember that my husband is my teammate, and not my costar. Because the truth is that no one’s measuring my reality against my fantasy and finding anything lacking except for, well—me.

I’ve decided that “happily ever after” has nothing to do with living a life that ’s glamorous and expected and perfect, and everything to do with arriving at a porch swing with 70 years of memories behind me, and still holding hands with the man I married so long ago. So what if marriage isn’t exactly like I imagined? Sometimes—make that many, many times—it ’s infinitely, immeasurably better.

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a heart built for six

BY TERESA ANDERSON

PHOTOS BY MAREN MILLER PHOTOGRAPHY

Life doesn’t always turn out like you plan, or like it does in the movies.

Sometimes it ends up ten times better.

I never wanted kids. Goodness, honestly I didn’t even like kids! I could count on one hand how many times I’d babysat and each time resulted in disaster. Like the time I locked myself and the children out of the house. Or the occasion where one of the kids spilled grape juice all over their great-grandma’s handmade lace tablecloth. Which may or may not have been the same day.

I had different plans for my life. Big, glamorous plans of international living and working in the art world. I’d just recently graduated with a degree in art history and planned to go on and get my masters and doctorate, eventually landing a curating position at some museum in Europe.

Preferably Italy. Done.

I graduated with my degree, but wasn’t yet sure where I wanted to continue on for the rest of my schooling so I took some time off from school and worked at a restaurant on Seattle’s waterfront. This gave me a lot of time to walk the beach praying, or take the ferry just to sit on the deck and read, coffee in hand. I ended up spending hours each day alone pondering my future.

The streets of the neighborhood, Queen Anne, I’d grown to cherish, became my place of peace and rest. I parked my car blocks away from my favorite spots to sit and read. I loved to wander through the beautiful old streets and dream as I skipped over the cracked sidewalk and pray while enjoying the cool shade provided by the gloriously large trees that canopied above.

And I wondered what my future would hold.

We need to f ind God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature—trees, flowers, grass—grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence...

We need silence to be able to touch souls.

– Mother Teresa Beginning in sixth grade, my family moved to Guatemala for a few years. During this time, I saw that my little bubble of life in the suburbs of Seattle wasn’t actually real life. I saw suffering, poverty, and guerrilla warfare amongst the lush green and cobble stoned streets that make up that beautiful country. I saw the dirty faces of hungry children, and hopping lice from heads of orphans.

I saw that life wasn’t all about me.

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My walks overlooking the Space Needle, became important moments where things were impressed upon my heart. I always knew I wanted a life out of the ordinary. But I was searching for what that really meant. I knew what I was passionate about and what my heart desired. But was that truly the best for my life?

I remembered our lives in Guatemala and knew my worldview had changed because of it. But what that meant for me, I wasn’t sure.

A few weeks after that prayer arose upon my heart, one of my ferry trips across the water led me to the small island town of Poulsbo to visit one of my closest friends. I don’t remember how the conversation with her older sister began, but the fact that I had no desire to have children emerged.

With eyes wide as saucers, my friend’s sister simply stated, “Wow. Your Christmases are going to be so boring.” That silly little comment changed my life. I reeled for weeks as I realized my life’s desires left no room for wants outside my own.

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I’d prayed to make an impact on the world, but had been planning only for my own desires.

from childhood was adopted...it was something I’d always been exposed to.

Sure, I could do great things for others in the life I had planned out. Mighty things. And I may have, but it wasn’t about that. Herein came the realization that I had to open my heart and my eyes to the opportunities that existed in fulfilling my life’s purpose.

I wasn’t even married yet. But Ben and I talked and imagined adopting little African babies once we were husband and wife, envisioning all the ways we could make a difference in the world.

The famous line from the classic movie, Casablanca, echoed in my ears: “We’ll always have Paris.” I’d always have a passion for art history and traveling the world. I will forever smile when I hear a street musician or open the heavy doors leading into a museum.

Instead of unlocking history’s secrets in Europe and experiencing its art and beauty for the rest of my life like I thought I wanted, my heart instead opened for the very continent that filled me with apprehension and full-on dread. The land I heard about in Sunday school when I was a child, and tithed my pennies to as I prayed for missionaries who had left the comfort of an American life to live in the African Bush, was put on my heart.

The home of poverty and extreme need, which made me so fearful, would eventually open my eyes to joy and love like I had never known...and change my life forever.

Today, gone is the mystery, anxiety, and consternation of Africa. In its place is a full soul, marveling. Eyes that have seen the magnitude of the true wealth Ethiopians possess, the fullness and beauty of the people and the land.

And the knowledge that with such entirety, such completeness: Ethiopia is my home away from home.

But none of this was known to me then. Instead, I walked the streets of Seattle and continued to pray: Father, use me.

Help me make an impact for the world that outlives myself.

Several years later, I was dating my now-husband, Ben. We were at an auction where a black and white photograph caught our eye. It showed a little boy in Malawi, praying (it now hangs in a special place in our entry).

Standing in front of that picture spurred all sorts of conversation. We knew we would eventually get married and were talking about our future. Adoption was around me abundantly growing up. My mom’s youngest brother was adopted, and her other brother and his wife had four biological children before becoming foster parents (ministering to and loving on more than 100 kids over 30 years) and adopting six more (that ’s a grand total of ten kids, if you were keeping count). One of my closest friends

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He, like me, wanted to live an abundant life. To be used to make a difference in the world.

We wanted to do more than just talk about making an impact, we wanted to live it.

After our sons, Anton and Laith, were born, we felt the time was right to start researching international adoption.

Though Africa had been on our hearts since first setting eyes on that black and white photo at the auction, we didn’t yet know what country was best for us. As we read more and more about the cultures and adoption regulations of each country, we fell head over heels in love with Ethiopia.

After finding a smaller agency that fit our needs well, we worked on our home study and spent countless hours filling out the paperwork, finger printing, and online adoptive parenting classes that meant we were slowly stepping closer and closer to bringing a child home and into our family.

We knew we wanted an infant and after waiting about four months, we were matched with a teeny-tiny baby girl with the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. We didn’t know yet that she would come home to us at five months old, weighing a mere nine pounds. Her incredibly sick, malnourished body struggled to keep on even the preemie diapers we wrapped her in so tightly.

Right around the same time we learned Imani would be the newest addition to our family, we were also praying about the idea of adopting a boy just a touch older than our biological boys. Our agency has a separate page on their website that requires a password and in it are listed, what are called the “Waiting Children,” or the older children who are paper-ready and simply waiting for someone to chose them. One night as we were reading the limited information provided on these sweet smiling faces, we came across Ezekiel.

There was just something about him.

And we wanted to know more.

The next morning, we reached out to receive more information about this darling little boy and by the end of the week, a package had been delivered with a video and

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some medical information. During that time, we asked all our friends and family for their thoughts and advice. We wanted prayers for discernment and wisdom in making this huge decision.

And every. Single. Person advised us to not move forward.

“You will destroy your family,” they said.

“You will be displacing your first born. He needs to remain your oldest,” others warned.

We were sad and disheartened. Not a single person supported us adopting an older child and messing with the birth order. And honestly, we got scared.

We sent the DVD back with a note that apologized for wasting their time and getting their hopes up on placing this little six-year-old.

And then months sped by.

The day before we left to pick up Imani and bring her home for good, we received a call from the director of our agency. She mentioned that Ezekiel had been moved from an orphanage several hours away, near the border of Sudan, to one a mere 15 minutes away from the guest house we would be staying at. Would we like to meet him, she asked.

She assured us he’d have no idea we were there to see him, instead we could just take a tour of the orphanage and bring little sweets and trinkets for the children to play with.

They’d think we were just nice Americans, hanging out for the afternoon.

That night, after we hung up the phone with her, it came out that though Ben and I never talked about him, we prayed for and thought about Ezekiel nearly every day.

So we went. Ben and I stepped off the plane after 48+ hours of traveling, and into an old van that brought us to meet this little boy we couldn’t stop thinking about, even months later.

He was the first child to run out the doors of the building, jumping over all five cracked cement steps. He stopped in front of Ben with a goofy, crooked-toothed grin and the two of them immediately began kicking around the half-filled soccer ball at their feet. Suddenly the small dust and grasspatched yard was filled with children laughing and yelling to one another, in several different dialects.

As I stood next to the rusty van, the younger boys pulling at my shirt and older girls beginning to braid my hair, I heard a whisper pass through my consciousness that was so audible, I swear someone was there.

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It said, “This is your son.”

Whaaaat? No. No. “This is your son.” Over and over, until the absolute clarity of it hit me: He is my son!

As the magnitude of this decision continued to sink in, I knew. I knew it as much as I knew our little boys from my womb were my sons. This child would soon leave the care of this orphanage, called Resurrection, and resurrect into a new life entering into a family who would love him so intensely the rest of his life, that all of us would be changed forever.

We no longer cared what everyone else thought. This was our calling. Not theirs.

Four months later, Ben went to Ethiopia by himself to bring Ezekiel home since Imani wasn’t yet at a place where I could leave her. She and I were still working on our bonding, though her small frame had begun to finally gain weight.

As our family quickly turned from five to six, I have never been so nervous for anything in my entire life. My nerves on our wedding day held no candle to the day Ezekiel came home. So I stayed as busy as possible and waited not-sopatiently for the big day. The younger kids and I prepared the new bed in the boy’s bunkroom, as we now called the room they would all share. We readied the playroom and picked up Ezekiel’s new bike—anything I could do to attempt to keep my excited nerves at bay.

Finally the day came and we were at the airport waiting with all our closest friends and family who lived in town.

With such graciousness, those who disagreed with our decision had decided to love on and support us instead, knowing there was no point in anything else.

In the months between deciding to bring Ezekiel home, and physically doing it, hearts were opened as Ben and I shared our belief that sometimes our callings are hard. In fact, if it ’s a calling, likely it will be hard! Life isn’t supposed to be all rosey all the time. If it is, you’re not stretching yourself.

You’re not getting out there enough.

I’m not going to lie and tell you life was all sunshine and rainbows, because as you can imagine, Ezekiel had a lot of mourning to do as he grieved his old life and begun to understand his new one. The only English words he spoke were the words to Jesus Loves Me so there was a lot of laughing and sometimes frustration as we tried to understand each other through months of speaking through

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charades. It’s amazing how much you begin to understand though, even if you don’t speak one another’s language.

A handful of months later, we had the opportunity to move to Colorado, and jumped at it. Conversations were had.

Tears flowed. And boxes were packed. With a heavy heart about who we left behind, my soul soared knowing we were headed off to a new adventure. Little did we know then, Denver has one of the largest Ethiopian communities in the entire country. The most incredible added blessing.

As we began to feel settled in a new home, in a new city, and the boys all at new schools, I breathed “thank yous” throughout the day. We were still working through a lot of things with Ezekiel but things were getting better and better every day. He was beginning to comprehend our love for him was real and unchanging. We knew eventually we’d like to adopt again, but certainly not anytime soon. And we definitely had no intent of bringing home an older child again. At least, not someone older than Ezekiel. It just wasn’t a conversation we were having at that moment in life.

One day though, as the kids were napping, I collapsed onto the couch to vedge for five minutes and enjoy a much needed afternoon latte. Scrolling through Facebook on my phone, I stopped on a post a fellow-adoptive mom had written about a boy named Abreham who was in need of a family. As I read his story, I burst into tears.

Again, I knew this child was my son.

Ben and I are like a puppy-loving high school couple, talking and texting all throughout the day. But for some reason, this day we didn’t chat at all. When he finally got home from work, I was stirring dinner on the stove. As he put his suit jacket on the counter and came up to kiss me hello, he looked me in the eye and said “we need to talk.”

I cut in, “Is it about a little boy named Abreham? Because I think he’s our son.”

He paused, looking at me. And a smile slowly spread across his face.

That’s exactly what he wanted to talk about. He had seen Abreham’s story that very same day, yet through some completely different social media outlet than I had. And the feeling was mutual. This boy was our son.

We contacted our agency the very next day, beginning our eight month journey of getting Abreham home. It was difficult at times, a grandmother did not want him to have the opportunity that spread in front of him, so she burned all his records. We couldn’t find a blood relative willing to vouch that we was indeed orphaned, and hired a lawyer

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to comb the countryside looking for someone who would.

Again and again there were hang-ups, but we prayed and prayed that somehow it would all work out.

A few months later, as we piled our pastel-hued selves into the car after church on Easter Sunday, Ben received an email from our agency. As I helped with the last seatbelt and settled myself in the front seat, I looked over to see tears in Ben’s eyes. Now listen, my husband is a guy’s guy.

He’s not the type to get all teary—unless it has to do with our kids.

So I stopped, looking at him quizzically.

He just smiled goofily and handed me his phone. I scrolled through to find about 30 photos of an itty-bitty infant girl.

Wait. An infant girl being held by Abreham? I looked at Ben, confused.

“Read the email,” he encouraged. The email above all the photos said simply, “This is your daughter. Congratulations!

We already told Abreham because we knew you’d say yes to her. She is beautiful.”

I was speechless. And then we both started laughing uncontrollably. You know, the kind that’s deep in your chest.

One that happens when you’re a bit nervous and maybe you’re freaking out a little—or a lot. When you’re feeling overwhelmed and excited at the same time.

Whaaaaaat?! This is our daughter?!

Ben and I had gone back and forth for so long about the possibility of having another baby or adopting another baby, that we couldn’t even remember when we’d put ourselves on the baby waiting list.

But sure enough, our turn was up. This was her.

And she was in the same orphanage as Abreham.

After two trips to Ethiopia, one to meet with the Ethiopian Court, and another to meet with the U.S. Embassy, I brought the two newest additions to our family home all by myself.

Ohhh the stories I could tell you about that trip. Traveling with a five month old infant and a teenager who didn’t know a single word in English. Let’s just say it was like bringing someone from the 1800s to modern day. The kid had never even seen an escalator or elevator. He looked at me so confused as I ushered him into a little box with a door and pressed a button. And oh the look of bewilderment as elevator doors opened up to a different view than they had closed upon. I could truly tell stories for days.

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And then we were home. And life began as a family of eight.

Six kids for the girl who never even wanted one. What preciousness life is when it so far surpasses anything we could have dreamed up ourselves.

We’re just past the two year mark of having Abreham and Baby Elsabet home and are feeling blessed and settled. I’d honestly say the hardest part of having a family our size is keeping schedules straight.

Like Ezekiel, Abreham went through many months of deep mourning as he struggled with this new life. Though it took an incredible amount of work and intentionality to get to where we are now, I can tell you with a heart laden with thankfulness, that we are at a place of great blessing. Our children genuinely love and care for one another. We enjoy each other and support each other.

Celebrating the everyday is a big theme in our family and I think it’s made a great impact on how the kids see one another. Together, we celebrate good marks on a spelling test or a tooth coming out. We celebrate learning to tie one’s shoes or that first great hit in baseball.

We all go together to cheer on Abreham at his races and to Anton’s football games. The boys will go to the grocery store before Imani’s performances so they can all pick out bouquets of flowers to give after her recital. We urge ways for them to make one another feel important. Noticed. Loved.

We seek to encourage the unity of our family, that we’re all a team. And from the deep recesses of my heart, I thank God that we are.

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#shareyourheart

woman on fire

share your heart

Want to nominate a #HeartWomanOnFire? Email your submission to hello@theheartmag.com or tag photos on Instagram using the hashtag.

C

authenticity that is so refreshing! Her Instagram feed is full of

M

obsession with Band-Aids), her new journey into homeschooling,

church on Tuesday and Friday evenings, plus feeding the hungry one

rystal is one of those super driven, how-does-she-do-it-

all people, but she goes at everything with an honesty and

hilarious stories about her girls (like her youngest daughter’s

crazy morning hair, and real and raw reflections. She is committed to making her business, which is exclusively focused on high

school seniors, something more than just a one-time photography

experience. She takes her clients to coffee, acting as a mentor to teens transitioning into adulthood and a cheerleader for their moms who are getting ready to let go. She pours her entire heart into both her

y mom, Pam Welch, is the most inspiring person I know.

She was recently diagnosed with cancer for the second time.

She has had to endure chemo, radiation, and three surgeries so far.

While going through all of this, she still made time to go cook for the Saturday a month. She has always had a good outlook and says that everything is going to work out. She uses this battle as her story to

show strength. I am so proud to be her daughter and I am proud of

her every day. I aspire to be just like her and to remember to live in the moment. I love you mom!

work and her family, and it shows!

-Courtney

Finally, from 2013–2014, Crystal was also the force behind an online

—

fundraising project that ultimately raised enough money to finish

building a home for her aunt, Peggy, whose husband had died in an accident prior to their home’s completion.

This is a lady with a crazy-cool heart and lots of stories to tell.

-Karley —

M

y sister Jane Coombs is a woman on fire. She is a twin

(youngest) and older sister to myself. Our 12-year-old niece,

Isabella (@stylekickingcancer), (daughter of her twin) is battling rare bone cancer and since the upheaval of this news at the start of this

B

randi is a single mom and one of the most passionate, lovely

people I’ve ever met. And she’s doing some majorly life changing

things! She’s the type of person you meet and five minutes later,

you’re ready to take on the work with her. Completely on fire. And completely infectious.

We accept written submissions in these categories: Acceptance Courage Growth Hope Inspiration Love Interested in being a photo contributor? We accept pre-produced shoots and work with photographers to produce editorials exclusive to Heart.

Know a #HeartWomanOnFire that we should hear about? Tell us her story!

You can submit your writing or photography at theheartmag.com/contribute Tag your photos with #ShareYourHeart

—

I

would like to have my sister, Jules recognized as a woman on fire.

I have felt on my heart for some time that her photography will

change the world for the better of God’s kingdom. She has been on

multiple trips to orphanages in Africa and takes breathtaking pictures

errands for them, looking after Isabella’s brothers, and being an all-

over there. She has also traveled to India to teach photography as a

to Isabella—not for attention or anything like that—purely so young

the future. Long story short, she is an amazing woman. I could never

day. Traveling two-hour round trips from her home, doing groceries/

of the sweet children to promote the mission work they are doing

around legend! She shaved her super long hair as a sign of strength

trade so that impoverished children might have a means of income in

Bella wouldn’t feel so different.

have the means to show her how special she is, but I think you guys

This all on top of her being by our 95-year-old grandmother’s side

her talent and heart.

I hope you can tell her how wonderful she is.

Feel led to put your heart on paper?

-Teresa

year, she has stopped everything to be by their sides and assist every

late last year, right up to the traumatic moments she left us.

Heart would not exist without women willing to share their stories.

should know about it regardless. I really think she blesses people with

-Carol

-Benjamin

PHOTOS BY MELISSA OHOLENDT

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