volume ii
From Holl & Lane Magazine
welcome to illuminate
When Holl & Lane Magazine first began, we never imagined the community that would develop because of it. Women from all around the world came to read the stories of our brave writers. And even more surprising, women from all around the world asked to write for us, sharing their innermost journeys, thoughts, and feelings. We've long wanted to develop a community for writers. But we wanted to be mindful of the type of group we created. We wanted to provide value and substance. To help women be able to share their story, no matter who would read it. And with that, we created illuminate.
Sarah Hartley
Illuminate is a community of people who love the written word. It's a monthly membership filled with tools to help our writers continue to do what they do best - write. And we're there to cheer them on every step of the way. On the following pages you’ll find the writings of some of our members. This bi-annual FREE digital issue will showcase the writings that our members love best. And we think you're going to love them, too.
Sarah & Mia Founders of illuminate
Mia Sutton
inside 06 Balancing Creativity + Anxiety 08 Just Can't stop 10 The Worst Question 14 Look, Mom 18 Babe. 20 These Arms... 22 Time to Go 26 The Lessons in Our Choices 28 Reflections 30 A Letter to My Son 34 Loving My Body 36 Four Little Squares 38 Seeing Beauty : LA
the writers Arielle Caraway Seeing Beauty: LA aristalights.com Christine Amoroso Four Little Squares barenakedinpublic.com Eunice Brownlee The Lessons in Our Choices euniceann.com Holly Tucci These Arms... vibrantlivingfromtheheart.com Jen Moslander Babe jellerejuv.wixsite.com/emconnective/blog Jennifer Collins Look, Mom lifeconfetti.blog Jess Lambert Reflections instagram.com/whenwordsbecomelight
Laci Hoyt Just Can't Stop liviatree.blogspot.com/ Mia Sutton Balancing Creativity + Anxiety www.mia-sutton.com Melissa Wert A Letter to My Son instagram.com/printtherapy Rebecca Rice Loving My Body thehydrangeaproject.com Sarah Hartley The Worst Question sarahhartley.net/ Zantika Ellis Time to Go flyingfreediaries.com
Balancing Creativity + Anxiety About 4 years ago, I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder. I took my prescribed medication and it helped tremendously. My panic attacks and other symptoms mostly went away and I felt so much better. Except when it came to my writing. My mental health was great, but my creative muscle was numb. No inspiration, no words, no creative sparks of any kind. That doesn't mean that the urge went away, though. I felt this desperate need to write something, but the well was dry. It was hard for me to come to terms with that. Writing is my thing. It's who I am, it's what I do. When I don't or can't write, I feel restless, like something is missing. But the medication really made my quality of life in every other area better. It was an impossible choice. Creativity versus health. Eventually, I didn't have to worry about making the choice. Through a series of job changes and insurance waiting periods, I had to stop seeing my doctor and eventually the refills ran out. (And she eventually closed her practice and passed away from cancer, but I digress). And almost immediately, the words came rushing back. I was ecstatic. Ideas came from everywhere. I had trouble getting them all down on paper, but it was a good problem to have. And my anxiety seemed to be OK, so it was the best of both worlds. For a little while. →
Eventually, my anxiety symptoms came back full force. I went to the hospital, twice, because I was convinced I was dying - chest pains, shortness of breath, heart palpitations, dizziness, you name it. Each time, the kind doctors did their due diligence and tested me for everything under the sun and finally said, do you have anxiety? And I felt ashamed. Like, why am I bothering them with my little old anxiety when there are people who are literally dying? But in the moment, I didn’t know. It felt real. I wrote this in my journal not too long ago, and it’s something that is 1,000% true for me: Logic is a feeble foe against anxiety’s might. My symptoms are mostly better now. But it’s still a struggle from time to time. Usually, the most random times. The other day, I drove to the grocery store to pick up some bread, and as I was waiting at the stoplight, my throat started to close up and my heart started pounding and every worry and ridiculous thought in my brain reared its ugly head. I literally felt like everyone’s eyes were on me and I started hyperventilating. I sat in the parking lot for a while, just listening to music and trying to breathe. It passed and I got my bread and went back home. But there's this tension in my neck and shoulders that happens when my anxiety gets really bad. It’s a bracing for things to come - things that generally never come. But my body is ready for battle anyway. It's exhausting. It's exhausting to have to explain over and over that I don't feel well, that my whole body hurts from muscles that are clenched, that my mind is tired from racing and illogical thoughts, that I may appear to be fine, but I'm really not. I get tired of seeing people say over and over that anxiety is a joke and people just need to stop worrying and be positive and everything will be fine. I get tired of people who think that occasionally feeling anxious and having diagnosed anxiety are the same thing. I get tired of people responding, “Oh, I thought you meant sick sick, like with an illness.” WTF? But my writing, though. My writing has been pretty awesome, if I do say so myself. I don’t publish everything that I write, but I have been feeling so creative and productive lately. My main point is that as someone who lives and breathes writing, having a condition that can only be treated with medication that isn't conducive to writing is heartbreaking to me. I've tried a couple of different kinds of medications, too. But it didn't help. And doctors aren't really concerned with creativity, understandably - I have anxiety, they have a treatment for it, and the treatment works. In their mind, that's the end of the story and they've done their job. And they have. But writing is not something I'm willing to give up. Right now, the balance is easier because I do a little freelance/part-time work from home. I don’t have to go anywhere if I don’t want to. The only people I see are my husband and my kids. And I like it that way. There’s a routine and a sense of comfort in my days. So, if a random attack pops up, I can climb in bed and wait it out and do my breathing exercises and I’m usually fine. But as the hubs and I discuss me going back to work outside the home soon, I’m worried. I know that I will need medication in order to function. I don’t do well with new situations and new people and new places and new stressors. But with medication comes the inevitable numbness. I’m worried about my writing and losing the words that mean everything to me. It’s a sucky situation all around. There's got to be a better way to manage the two. And if every doctor in my town could NOT have a 6-month waiting list, or actually accept new patients, that would also be great. But that’s a rant for another day. ¤ Mia Sutton is a self-proclaimed word nerd. She loves donuts, laughter, cheesy action movies, pretty notebooks, and the Oxford comma. Mia lives in Virginia with her husband and 2 kids. www.mia-sutton.com Essay Image by Haute Stock
Just Can't Stop I can’t stop the tears. They just flow out of my eyes and stream down my cheeks and drip off my chin. I’m not sobbing. I just can’t stop the tears. I know it sounds silly. I mean, 6 years have gone by with no answers so it’s not really shocking when the doctor says, “I can’t find anything wrong so there’s really not much else we can do.” But somehow it crushes my spirit anyway. It’s like I’m a balloon and all the air inside me has just been let out. I’m left wrinkly and deflated. Because I get up and I go to appointment after appointment and test after test and I hope and I hope. Maybe this time they will find evidence. Maybe this time will be different. All that hope, wasted. Again. I choked it all back as I sat there under his watchful gaze, willing myself not to let my eyes fill more than they already had, willing the tears not to spill over the edge of my lids. I stared at the pink poster on the wall across from me and blinked, trying to get the tears to retreat back into my eyes and I swallowed and I waited until I had control of my voice before opening my mouth to say “thank you.” And then I made a joke and laughed like I was fine, like it didn’t matter to me when really I just wanted to cry and ask: What am I supposed to do now? But I already know the answer because the answer is to do what I’ve already been doing all these years. You just go on. Somehow you wake up every morning and you get up and just go on. You take your half-life and try to make something out of it and even though all the disappointments have weakened the walls of your hope, you blow that stupid hope-balloon back up with more hope, only you do it more carefully now. You want to hope that this time you won’t fail at living this half-life or that you will be braver or that you will start to feel better or that one of the other doctors will help, but instead you will hope these things with a little less conviction. A lot less conviction. Or maybe not at all. But no matter how weak or nonexistent your hope is, you will just keep living, the same way you just keep breathing even when it doesn’t feel like it is worth it. You will just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Because what other choice is there, really? ¤
Laci Hoyt lives in a little town in upstate NY with her husband and two teenagers. She writes about living with chronic illness, love and relationships, and any other thing she can’t get out of her head. When she isn’t writing she can be found with knitting needles and yarn or hunched over the sewing machine making all the things. liviatree.blogspot.com Essay Image by Unsplash
The Worst Question
I can picture it like it was yesterday. Me, Henry, and Harrison were sitting at our dark brown dinner table. Brandon was out of town for work, again. It had been a long day of playing, rocking, feeding, screaming, coping. I was counting down the minutes until it would be bedtime and I’d finally be alone. I set Henry’s paper plate of peanut butter and jelly in front of him. Harrison had been crying for nearly ten minutes by now. Why? I’m not really sure, and I doubt he was either. But he was mad and he wanted everyone to know it. I tried to feed him bites of the mashed potatoes he normally scarfed down. He screamed more. I tried to give him a bottle filled with watered-down apple juice. He slammed his tiny fists down onto his highchair tray. Over and over he screamed until he was so red in the face, I thought he was going to choke. My salad sat near me, long forgotten. Henry stared at us both, wondering what I would do. He could feel the frustration radiating off of me. “Harrison, knock it off !” I lost control and yelled, only making things worse. Harrison’s face scrunched up and he cried harder. Finally, I gave up. I lifted Harrison out of his highchair, sat him on the table facing me with his chubby legs hanging down. He stopped crying nearly instantly. He grabbed for my shirt, he grabbed for my soggy salad, he grabbed for my glass of milk. To distract him, I got a spoonful of his mashed potatoes and started to feed him. He finally went still and began to eat again. I sighed. I likely rolled my eyes. I sighed harder. And that’s when Henry asked me the question. The one that felt like a punch to the gut, and made me feel like I was doing everything wrong. The one that made me feel ashamed of how I had reacted, not just in this moment, but in all my previous moments where I had lost my temper with Henry or Harrison.
I felt tears spring to my eyes. Even now, as I relive that moment, I can feel the tears form. I had reacted so poorly that I made Henry feel as if I didn’t want his little brother. I wondered if he also thought I didn’t want him in the times that I lost my temper and yelled at him. I took a deep breath and as simply as I could, I tried to explain to my four-year-old how I would never wish that. How sometimes I just got so frustrated because I didn’t know how to make Harrison happy. How even when I’m angry, I always love both him and Harrison. I took Harrison and put him back in his highchair, where he was now perfectly content to sit and eat his mashed potatoes. I slid my bowl of salad closer to me and ate it with one hand while feeding Harrison with the other. Henry went back to his dinner. Minutes later, Henry hopped down from the dinner table, put his plate on the kitchen counter, and walked to the bathroom as I asked. I picked Harrison up from his chair and followed Henry to the bathroom for their nighttime bath. They splashed and played and giggled in the bath together all while I mulled over Henry’s question, and my response, hoping I had conveyed to Henry how much I truly did want Harrison in our family. I went to sleep that night with so much guilt on my shoulder’s, vowing to do better the next day. Vowing to prove to them both how much I want them. But also knowing, chances are that I would probably slip up again, because I am not a perfect mother. Sometimes you just have to give yourself grace. ¤
“Mommy, it’s really hard to have two kids, isn’t it?” “Yes, baby, it can be really hard.”
Sarah Hartley is the creator and editor in chief of Holl & Lane Magazine, a magazine dedicated to sharing the honest stories from women we've been taught not to talk about. She is a wife to Brandon, a mom to Henry, and lives near Pittsburgh, PA. She has loved writing since she first wrote about being the Future Mrs. Justin Timberlake as a young girl, and has since moved on to writing about her life with her real husband and son on her personal blog. sarahhartley.net
I thought that was the end of it. It wasn’t.
Essay Image by Sarah Hartley
It started off innocently enough:
“Mommy, do you wish that you never had that baby?” I stopped the spoon mid-way to Harrison’s mouth. I had to have heard him wrong, right? I asked him to repeat it. And he did, in exactly the same way.
Look, Mom
We took a trip to Lake Erie this weekend, squeezing the last drops out of our fleeting summer. My kids were older now and invited friends along for the trip. They took a break from the water to build in the sand. I watched them from my beach chair, working together to dig a deep hole and moat. Their structures were more sophisticated these days. My daughter was nearing 13, and I was surprised that she readily joined in building with her brother and their friends. She didn't enjoy doing much other than hanging out in her room lately. "Look, Mom, ..." my daughter said happily waving to get my attention and then pointing to the wall she built. I smiled and told her it looked great and commended them all on their awesome job. I looked at my daughter. That familiar quiet smile momentarily flashed across her face, the one that made her eyes light up; then she looked away, but not so quickly that I missed it. I smiled to myself. Then my tears took me by surprise. Look, Mom. How long it had been since I heard those words. It wasn't until she said them, that I realized how much I missed them. They made my heart awaken and break, all at once. Look, Mom ... I made this all by myself. Look, Mom ... I painted this for you. Look, Mom ... I brought you a flower. Two simple words stirred memories so fresh, and so deep. Two simple words exposed the longing that hid in my heart. I remembered the days when she held up her arms, pleading for me to scoop her up in mine. I remembered the days when I was the center of her universe. I remembered the days when she never let me go to the grocery store alone. I remembered when my daughter demanded my attention, approval, and praise. Now, she didn't come out of her room unless she was hungry. She rolled her eyes when I questioned the outfit she chose for church. She no longer sought my praise; because at almost 13, Moms didn't know anything, did they? →
I looked at my baby girl, and a young woman appeared on the water's edge in her place. Her beautiful hair was still long and full of a thousand different colors of gold and red and brown; but she brushed it herself now, and she styled it in braids beyond my skill level. Her fingernails were still painted a pretty pink, but her hands were bigger versions of the ones that used to reach for mine. Her eyes were still lively and brown with flecks of green, but those eyes now looked past me to view a much bigger world. Look, Mom... I am too grown up to sit with you on the couch for family movie night. I'll sit over here, counting the minutes until I can escape to my room. Look, Mom ... I want to hang out with my friends tonight. Can we go to that special dinner you mentioned another night? Look, Mom ... I don't want to talk about school. I don't like when you ask me a bunch of questions. I am going to my room. I watched her on the beach that day. Her unmistakable giggle echoed over the sound of the water lapping against the shore. She plunged into the waves, swimming and dancing around in the water. She was filled with all the joy and wonder she had as a little girl. Look, Mom ... the water is dancing. Look, Mom ... the sand swallows my feet. Look, Mom ... I found a pretty shell. Those memories were as clear as the boats on the horizon. So real, I could almost touch them. I wanted to reach out and grab them and shove them back into my heart; for those memories were so tangible, I feared they might escape and drift away with the waves... Drift away... like my daughter. Oh, my heart. I thought about how much things changed in the last year or so. I saw glimpses of her, now and then, enough to know that my little girl was still in there. Even though my daughter kept her locked up tight, that little girl came out to play sometimes. We didn't sing preschool songs; but we danced in the car, and she laughed when I sang along to "Mom songs" on the radio. She didn't tell me everything about her day anymore; but she told me the highlights when she was willing, and I took what I could get. We didn't color pictures and make play dough snakes anymore, but we painted pretty things at the pottery place. We didn't share butterfly kisses, but we shared knowing looks and inside jokes. She even asked me for advice once in a while, ... so maybe she didn't think I was clueless after all. Our relationship wasn't broken, it was just different. →
I missed those early Saturday mornings when she ran downstairs in her nightgown with a case of bed head, and eagerly climbed on my lap. Today, she dragged herself down the stairs near noon wearing a hoodie and her hair in a messy bun, asking what we had to eat. I missed my little girl; but I loved the young woman who took her place; even with the eye rolls, the snappy comments, and the ridiculous mood swings. Watching her grow up was hard. So very hard. That day, as I watched the sailboats drift by, I thought about what the future held. I thought about the years stretched out before us and prayed that I would be here to watch her keep growing. I prayed that God would help us navigate this new road we traveled and that He would bind our hearts together even tighter as the world tried to pull us apart. I prayed that if things didn't work out the way I hoped; that God would keep her safe as she navigated this world without me. As I sat on that beach chair, watching my almost teenage daughter play in the waves; a flood of memories filled my mind, and a thousand wishes filled my heart. I missed chasing her with sunscreen and wrapping her in a towel to shield her from the ocean breeze when she was cold and wet. Oh, how I wish protecting her was still that easy. I missed standing beside her, watching for the waves; then lifting her just high enough so that the water tickled her toes, without knocking her down. Oh, how I wish I could do that for her in real life. I missed taking those walks along the shore, going so far that when we looked back; we couldn't see where we left our things. Oh, how I hope that she will always look back and still see me, no matter how far she roams. And when she roams, I hope that she knows I will be always be waiting for her when she comes back. "Look, Mom", she said. I'm looking, baby girl. I'm always looking. ¤ Jennifer Collins is a freelance writer and blogger. She is wife to her very own Superman and mom to two amazing kids. Jennifer loves hot tea, sunsets, and is determined to live life to the fullest despite a stage IV cancer diagnosis. lifeconfetti.blog Essay Image by Jennifer Colllins
I feel ya, Babe. I feel the anxiety creeping up the back of your neck as the days pass and it comes closer and closer. I feel the muscles tighten around your chest, back, lungs, heart. Tick. Tick tick. Tick tick. I feel the moments tick by slowly, in agony. I feel ya, Babe. I feel the grief caused by loss, the deep soul ache that will never cease. I feel the gaping wound there left by sorrow, guilt, regret. Words never shared, emotions still left to feel. I feel the sting of the burning flesh as the open air hits it. I feel ya, Babe. I feel the fatigue left by sleepless nights. I feel the worry in your muscles and bones, creaking with every move. Deeply knotted and enmeshed within. I feel the stiffness in your movements. I feel ya, Babe. I feel the warm tears on your face. I feel the desperation releasing the essential salt and water from your being. Stripes of pain paint your cheeks. I feel the puddle of your life on that pillow. Just know I feel ya, Babe. I feel ya. ¤ Jen Moslander has spent her life writing about her observations as a healer and an educator. Humanitarian, Mentor, and Creative are badges she wears with honor. She spends her hot summer days on a baseball field and her hot summer nights absorbed in moon and star gazing. jellerejuv.wixsite.com/emconnective/blog Poem Image by Jen Moslander
These Arms...
In July 2018, I got to be a part of an amazing team and run Ragnar Northwest Passage. It felt SO good to be a part of a team again! The course also allowed us to travel through various parts of Western Washington that are breathtakingly beautiful! I was capturing as many pics as I could along with taking in moments of simply absorbing the atmosphere, the sounds of nature, and the gorgeous views I was getting to see. While on Whidbey Island near Penn Cove, our van had stopped to cheer on runners. It was perfectly picturesque. I snapped a few scenic pics and team selfies. Then I asked one of my teammates to capture a pic of me with the water behind me. It’s a beautiful scene. I was grateful she obliged and took my pic. I was grateful I asked her to do so. I capture pics to help me remember the moments. Especially recently. SO much has happened in the last three months, let alone the last three days, that pictures are truly helping me to keep track of what has happened, where, and with whom. Upon looking at my pics later that day, I came across the one of just me with the water behind. My heart sunk a bit. What I saw in that pic was my arms. My arms that don’t look the way I want them to. My arms that have so much loose skin and don’t reflect the work I’ve put in. Yet, as I began to spiral downward with the negative self-talk, my eyes welled up with tears. I realized in THAT moment, I have SO MUCH MORE work to do. I’m not only referencing the physical work, there is that. But what I am truly referring to right now is the INNER work. I want to look at pictures of myself and see the amazing person I am and express words of love and gratitude. I don’t want to be mortified by the look of my arms. I want to see my incredible smile, my radiant soul, a body that has endured significant physical challenges and is capable of pushing through the struggles. The truth is, I used to weigh 320 pounds. The truth is, after weighing twice as much as I do now, it takes the body time to adjust. The truth is, I do think I look pretty cute and fun in my colorful Fellow Flowers tank (“in it for the long run” are the words on the back) and my Jette Skirt Capris with the tantrum print from Skirt Sports. I’m wearing two flowers in my hair, “Believe” (turquoise) and “Fiercely United” (orange). I’ve got my Momentum bracelet on my right wrist that says “You’ve Got This” to remind me of my inner strength when I begin to doubt it. On my left wrist along with my Garmin Vivofit, I’m wearing my “Be Like Hayley” bracelet, reminding me of how incredibly precious each day of our lives truly are. Each aspect of my outfit is full of intention and meaning. I’m flexing my arms in this picture because it was just after I finished my third and final leg. I felt strong for how I finished. Despite going 6-8 weeks with no running and no use of my core muscles post emergency surgery to untwist my bowels, I still ran. I was upright and I felt strong. I KNOW I have more work to do.
Today? Today that EXCITES me! It does not make my heart sink. It makes me feel excited that I AM able to recognize the work I’ve done and to see what more I can and will do! I am in the midst of training for the Chicago Marathon. This is my first marathon that I will run! This journey of becoming a marathoner is pretty frickin’ AWESOME! It is FULL of moments that bring smiles and tears. Full of experiences that fill my heart and bring me joy. As I continue to look at my arms, I KNOW that these are the arms that will be outstretched above my head as I jump for joy across that marathon finish line. These arms allow me to hug loved ones to help them feel how much I love them. These arms allow me hold my son’s hands. These arms remind me to say, “this is me”. I am flawed, imperfect, and am learning to love every aspect of who I am. ¤ Holly Tucci is an inspiring writer and speaker. She shares about her courage and lessons learned from her life experiences growing up as a Heart Warrior, near death experience, and letting go of over 150 pounds of excess body weight. Holly's focus is all about being her best each day and aiming to infuse that approach in other's lives by leading by example. vibrantlivingfromtheheart.com Essay Image by Holly Tucci
Time
to Go
One day, it just hits you, everything all at once. You think about everything that has happened. You recognize the patterns of the history that repeated themselves. You remember the good times. You remember the disappointment. You have held on to the hurt for far too long. You realize that this part of your story is over. It has been over. You even revisited a closed chapter and attempted to rewrite it. Though the middle of that chapter changed, the ending had already been written. There would be no alternate endings. The outcome was the same. You know that there's no rewriting the past. Going back to change what happened and try to make it better doesn't work. Life is about forward movement. Going back only holds you back. You no longer crave the moments. You no longer need the memories. It was what it was. The purpose has been served and there is no room left for it in your life. You are now able to set it free. How good it feels to let it all go. How good it feels to release the weight of guilt, disappointment, and resentment. The pain that was once so intense is gone. The pain is gone. The pain that was a constant no longer exists. It no longer weighs you down. It no longer has power over you. It no longer holds you back. Your love does not decrease simply because you let go. Love remains because love keeps us alive. Love is all we want to be, all we want to see, all we want to give, and all we want to receive. We all want love more than anything. Love is action. Love is you. You are love. When it no longer feels like a waste of time, when you feel no need to ask what if, when you feel no weight of negativity for the ending of that chapter of your life, when it doesn't hurt to think about it, and when you genuinely wish the best for them, you're ready to let go, you've already let go. You are free to fill that space in your life, in you heart, and in your mind with something new, something you never thought you would want before. You are growing. You are healing. You are transforming. You are free. The freedom that you seek from this last chapter that you've held on to is near. You know it. You feel it. You're ready for it. It's what you need to go and not look back, turn back, or come back, again. It's time to go. ¤ Zantika Ellis is a mentor, advocate, and writer. Zantika has a passion for basketball, traveling, and mental health awareness. Zantika enjoys creating safe space for honest conversations. flyingfreediaries.com Essay Image by Unsplash
The Lessons in Our Choices “I don’t know how you do it.” “Your strength amazes me.” “Wow, you’ve been through a lot.” “I don’t think I could handle all of that.” I am so tired of hearing these things. They are all wellmeaning efforts at empathy, but every one of them grates on me like nails on a chalkboard. It’s not that I don’t understand what the person uttering these words is trying to say. It’s that they don’t understand my pain, yet they feel compelled to say something because no reaction would be taken as heartless and uncaring. To say I’ve been through a lot in the past half decade is an understatement. I watched my parents’ lifelong marriage crumble into unsalvageable bits. My dad went to jail. My mom took everything and moved to the other side of the country. My siblings and I were left to clean up a mess that was not our doing. Relationships were fractured. Some were left beyond repair. As the dust of that life-changing time settled, the father of my child was accused of child abuse. The description of what happened was so violent and so shocking that I didn’t understand what was happening at first. After that, we dove into a months-long court battle until he finally accepted a guilty plea. The short window that my daughter had gotten to build the relationship with her father I had been hoping for since the moment she was born had closed. Again, relationships were fractured. Some were left beyond repair. In the midst of that drama, I was fired from the job I loved. It was a stupid termination; a technicality that allowed the company to avoid paying a severance for my years of service. I was bitter and yet, relieved. A lot of changes at the company allowed me to see exactly where I wanted to take my career, and that my opportunities if I remained were limited. Life-changing events are stressful. That’s why it’s suggested to limit the major ones after one is had — a marriage, a baby, a divorce, a death, a job change. Because all of that stress will eventually kill you.
To admire someone’s ability to weather the storm is kind, but it’s kind of empty. While we admire someone’s respective strength, we are also saying that we aren’t worthy of the lesson that will come from the challenge. We feel relieved that we don’t have to live in the darkness we see someone else in. But the thing is, incredible things manifest in the darkness. The pain of my parents’ divorce taught me how to set healthy boundaries. I am no longer willing to accept toxic relationships out of obligation. I learned to stop letting guilt be my driver and instead chose intention. I was able to find my own voice and say the things that have been on my heart without fear of retribution. The searing agony of watching what the abuse has done to my daughter — t he fallout is still not fully contained — has taught me how to recognize abuse in its many devious forms. I have learned to be more cautious with my relationships and, more importantly, walk away from those that are not serving me. I have become an incredible bullshit detector and know when someone has an ulterior motive with their actions. The shame of losing my job so unceremoniously forced me to look at what I really wanted out of life — not just what I thought I should want out of life. It forced me to reassess my priorities and design the life I’ve always dreamed of. I started a business with zero dollars and shitty credit. While the cash flow isn’t quite to the level I desire it, I’m happier than I have been in a very long time. I don’t want to think that people who have more challenges in life are stronger than those who don’t. I’m sure it doesn’t work that way. Rather, I feel like we call the challenges to us, the ones that we feel like we can take on. Maybe it’s bravery, maybe it’s arrogance, but for whatever reason, we choose the rocky path we set out on. The lessons we learn are ours and ours alone. It’s not something that we survive, it’s something that helps us to grow. ¤ Eunice Brownlee is enjoying the exploration of her love of words through writing. As a self-professed bibliophile, she's learning the power of sharing our stories, big and small. euniceann.com Essay Image by Eunice Brownlee
R E F L E C T I O N S
this was a year of love and pain but if you were to ask I would do it all again. heartbeats fast and thoughts so slow everything I thought I knew, flew with wings so wide and with surety into blazing suns that lined the skies. you gave me wings to fly and so I took off, took me, took you, took my past and threw these seeds of love somewhere else. around my garden gate I grew lavender and rosemary, keeping my heartbeats regular and breathing in time with the planets. the moon kept her gaze upon me and, with each phase, gave me even greater hope, pulling me to her, evermore, rolling with the tides, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, rolling, crashing, pulling, smashing old thoughts and dashing hopes of being the same old me. I never knew pain like this before, never knew I could fall and break, never knew all that could be at stake, never knew how I could leave the past behind and find, myself, clearer than ever before enjoying not knowing what's in store, because that's the fun part, the art in living, and I am living now, not for you, not for them, not for the truth tellers, the soothsayers, the naysayers and
your queens and kings, for I've found things much more important than that. I found that I can walk this walk while you talk your talk and drown in hypocrisy and smiles that mean nothing, but something maybe deep inside is stirring, I am learning that I don't need you to hold my hand, don't need you to stand at the edge of this mess I'm in, because it's my mess and I will not be cautious, I don't need your stress (I have my own) and so, I wear this dress, let it trail, not to impress, but lest this will be the last time we meet, so sweet, this call, this nature, let us smile, for while we are swimming in these lakes of hope, while we are flying through the universe itself, dodging stars and galaxies, I see you, and me and all we could have been. and that's ok, I walked away, head held high and with a smile knowing I will live another day. ¤
Jess Lambert currently teaches English as a foreign language in Glasgow, Scotland, alongside teaching yoga and fitness classes. In recent years she has released two EPs and singles that she wrote and performed herself, with more in the pipeline. Her hobbies include hanging out in coffee shops with her laptop, curling up on the sofa with a good book and eating good veggie food. instagram.com/whenwordsbecomelight Essay Image by Unsplash
A Letter to My Son
To my son, They say that motherhood changes you, but in truth it's impossible to fully grasp that concept until you've lived through it. Looking back, I barely understand the person who existed before you. While so many parts of me are still the same (or in the very least have resurfaced), everything is deeper in a way that I never could have imagined. Things are simultaneously darker, but brighter. Heavier, but lighter. Challenging, but so full of joy. You have made almost every moment of life harder, but in the same exact moment, better. You've made each moment worth every ounce of hardness. It's easier than ever to understand my purpose & what I've been put on this Earth to do - not only as a mother, but as a woman, and as a human being. You have redefined my limits, simply by being you. We're almost four years into this motherhood thing, and in truth I don't know who either of us will be four years from now. I'm slowly learning to give up the need to be able to control it, and the desire to know where we'll land before we jump, as where we are today is more beautiful and fulfilling than I ever would have imagined on the day you arrived. Motherhood is often described as having your heart exist outside of your body, and I can't think of a better understanding of what it is to be a momma. I feel everything though you. I see everything through you. Every decision I make is run through the filter of you. I haven't been the perfect momma, and in all honesty there's a lot from our early days that I regret. But even in those early moments, when you were forcing me to grow and change right along with you, I would do them over and over and over again a thousand fold if it means landing right here, with you, as exactly the little boy you are. I will love you forever and always. Every day. Every moment. Through every heart beat, every tear, and every breath. You are my sweet boy. Thank you for making me a momma, and for choosing me to be yours. Love forever and always, Your momma xoxo
When it comes to the challenging moments in life, Melissa Wert believes you should be able to get to the heart of the matter, without losing the heart of the matter. She is the founder of Print Therapy, a stationery company that marries hand-painted watercolor designs with emotionally honest and heartfelt words. She is happiest hanging at home trying to illicit giggles and dance moves from her sweet boy. instagram.com/printtherapy Essay Image by Nathan Oldham
Loving My Body
What do I love about my body? This question was posed to me by Illuminate. Every month we have a different theme that we are challenged to write about and January’s theme was the body. Going through the challenges and prompts I immediately started writing a piece on how I never thought I could write on body issues. I was writing about the negatives I’ve experienced when it came to my body. And then I realized that that wasn’t what the prompts were about. The prompts were asking me about the positives of my body. And dare I say what I love about my body. That for me asks for so much more vulnerability. So as a challenge to myself, I’m going to share three features I love about my body with you. My Wrists This may seem weird but I’ve often told people that my favorite physical feature is my wrists. And they really are one of my favorite features. I grew up watching Regent Era movies like Jane Austen and other historic/book romances. And in those movies, the women are always graceful, delicate, and ladylike. I wanted to be like them growing up. For me, my wrists remind me of those women. I have slight and delicate wrists. And even though I don’t wear corsets, my hair up in braids and curls, or little lace gloves, I have my wrists. It might seem silly but my wrists make me feel like a little bit more of a lady. They’re small, soft, and bring me back to a time I didn’t get to live. My Legs Now I’ve already talked about my legs, notably my thighs in previous pieces. I wrote about a moment of shock and embarrassment when I realized my thighs were the thickest out of my sisters. But as I also said in that post my thighs and my legs, in general, are powerful. My legs are far and away the strongest part of my body. And I love feeling that strength. Whether I’m hiking, running, or just goofing around my legs have been my steady base. I can rely on my legs. Often when I'm doing something athletic I’ll find myself putting my hands on my thighs to feel the muscles working. I love that. Feeling my body perform the way it was designed is so satisfying to me. My Hair At 10 years old I decided I was going to grow my hair out. By 15 it was down to my waist and that’s where it stayed, if not longer, until 23 when I cut it to boob length. Similar to my wrists, I first started thinking about long hair being beautiful because of old movies. I wanted mermaid-length hair when I first started growing, and I got it. During a time when my self-confidence wasn’t as strong as it is now I loved my hair because it really was beautiful and I could see that. I had something (really really long hair) that others prized and admired. I can’t tell you how many times people told me not to cut it. And now even though I’ve cut it and it isn’t as wavy as it once was I still love it. It played such a big part in my learning to see my own beauty. It really was my first love of my own body. Now I see it as a beautiful feature that frames my face. My first instinct when encountering this theme was to talk about how I’ve overcome body issues. I started a piece about how I didn’t feel like I had a place to talk on the body because I hadn’t experienced an eating disorder. But then when the piece didn’t easily flow through my mind onto the page I realized it wasn't genuine, or what I really felt I needed to talk about. Because for me that wasn’t the challenge. For me, the challenge was to be confident and acknowledge that I do love my body. For others, the challenge will be admitting that they were unkind to their body, or have felt super insecure about their body. But what I needed to hear when I was a teenage girl was someone telling me what they love about their bodies. I needed a reference on how to go about identifying those areas in myself. And that’s what I hope to see more of. So what I would hope you take away from this is the same question I felt was posed to me. What do you love about your body? ¤
Rebecca Rice has a fascination for stories in various forms. Loves exploring femininity and womanhood. And can't resist anything that has elderberry or flower in it! thehydrangeaproject.com Essay Image by Unsplash
Four Little Squares
The rusted hinges on the back door groan and stick; making a quiet entry impossible. I am certain my neighbors know exactly when I arrive home each night. I step into the dark house and slide my hand along the wall until I find the light switch, and then close the door behind me. Climbing the narrow staircase, I feel the weight of the day. I make my way to the second floor living room and drop my things on the kitchen counter. Turning on the lights, illuminating the space, the inside of my home is now visible from the outside. I walk to the window and look toward the ocean and while it’s too dark to see it, I smile knowing it is there. Sitting on the sofa, I reach down unbuckling my shoes, freeing my toes after a twelve hour day. I rub my feet, take a deep breath and relax a bit. Friday night has finally arrived. In a few minutes I’ll put on some music, start my laundry and clean the house. I may even squeeze in a work out. I find this routine calming, a form of therapy, clearing my head and a path for the rest of the weekend. I never sit for too long; afraid I might change my mind and binge watch crap TV or some romantic comedy I’ve already seen far too many times. Turning on television and all of the speakers, I search for just the right music and let it play, loudly. I collect my shoes and my purse, and make my way upstairs to my bedroom. I change into sweats, strip my bed and sort laundry. Remembering my phone needs a charge; I dig it out of my purse, and plug it into the wall behind the nightstand. I take a quick look on social media to see what my friends are doing on this Friday evening. The usual posts appear, checking in at happy hour or dinner, weekend travel and concerts, pictures of friends and food, and of course politics. Scanning the newsfeed a single post catches my eye. He is tagged in a photograph by someone I don’t know, a young woman, smiling and beautifully fresh faced. It’s a photo booth picture strip, four squares, the two of them, happy, smiling, a couple. Suddenly there is a tiny pit in my gut and I grapple with why that is.
The weeks following the move, we touched base now and then, some unfinished business, things forgotten at the house, items to return. I’m not sure exactly how it evolved, at first tiny texts, checking in now and then and somehow we found our way back to friendship, even on Facebook. Months after he moved out, against my better judgement, I started a relationship with someone I had loved a very long time ago, someone who chased me down, convinced me that he was the real deal, and then took it all back, it was a mistake. I was unprepared for such a crushing blow. The heartache seemed to be piling up. Without knowing it, he comforted me, took me to dinner on my birthday, replied to my texts to meet up for a bike ride and answered my requests to play Words with Friends. And while I never shared my pain, I feel sure he knew my heartache. He never let on; instead, he listened to my endless stories, and smiled. If I cried for what seemed to be no reason, he would simply say, I know. Saying good bye, I always hugged him for what may have been an uncomfortable length of time. If it was, he never let it show, always hugging me long and hard. As we settled into friendship, we grabbed a bite now and then; talked about life, our families and work, but never about our love lives. That’s easy for me . . . I made a decision to not date and he knew that. I imagined he was dating, but never probed. I guess I didn’t really want to know. These days we see each other less often, mostly for birthday and holiday wishes. We run into each now and then downtown. Prior to social media, this would have been our only connection, not so these days. We are exposed to the daily happenings in each other’s lives on Facebook and Instagram. We click like, like, like. I know when he is camping in the desert, or snowboarding in Tahoe. It’s how I learned his dog died, and now . . . I know about his new girl.
We lived together a few years ago. I have fond memories of our first summer, camping, weekend bike rides, Sushi and surf contests. We shared a love for beach living and all it had to offer. I often refer to that time as my teenage summer. I can’t think about it without smiling.
As I sit on the edge of my bed, I look again at the picture, the four little squares, and contemplate the little pit in my gut. And I realize it is fear . . . fear of change, fear of moving on, fear of taking a chance, fear of being left behind, forgotten.
Months passed, and our differences grew. We each wanted what the other was unwilling to give. We knew it was time to stop. It was the right thing to do, but even the right thing can hurt. My heart still gets a little achy when I think of his friends moving his stuff out of my house, it hurt. He unfriended me on FB, instantly cut off . . . that hurt too.
I set my phone down . . . I can only be happy for him. And then I silently thank him . . . without knowing it he pushes me to face my fear, to be brave . . . to try again. ¤ Christine Amoroso always believed she would have three careers. First accounting for thirteen years, then a teacher and principal for twenty years combined, and now a writer. She believes shared stories connect us all. barenakedinpublic.com Essay Image by Unsplash
Seeing Beauty: LA
I’ll be honest. LA isn’t one of my favorite places in the world, but it makes for the perfect place to be reminded to see beauty everywhere you go. I was able to attend the Yellow Conference, check out some great local businesses and tourist attractions, and discover the cutest little lunch joint all while getting out of my comfort zone! I was on my way to the Cow Café in Downtown when I happened upon barcito. In full disclosure, I went the wrong direction, but by the time I realized it on maps, I decided to just finish circling the block to see what else was there. I also honestly wasn’t up for the embarrassment of passing the construction workers at the corner again, and since I was alone, I figured it was the perfect opportunity for a mini exploring session. Sometimes you can only take a small step in bravery, but you have to start somewhere, right? I’d seen barcito online but wasn’t sure if it was the menu for me. When I realized I was passing it though, I figured I had to at least check it out. The heavenly smell from the kitchen was my first reward… and the reason I stayed. My second reward was an enlightening conversation from a manager at Lululemon who told me that the company sent all their store managers to the same conference I was attending. It was great to hear about the autonomy they gave their managers in training the staff and how the values that the conference represented aligned with those of the company. It turned out that the only waiter was also the bartender and host that afternoon, but the great conversation made the wait go by quickly. They were also quick about getting food out once ordered. The food. was. Amazing. Granted, I was hungry, but the chicken and rice empanada had the best flavor. It seemed like such a basic dish but whatever seasoning the chef used was on point. The crust was the perfect amount of flaky as well. I’d meant to order the eggs and hash as my second plate because I’m a hashbrown girl, but their breakfast salad ended up being the perfect backup! I traded the chorizo for ham based on their recommendation, and it was great. I was a little surprised the Brussel sprouts were pulled apart, but it did help make the dish more salad-like, and they were the right amount of crispy, so it worked for me. I still don’t know what the light sauce was, but it was also amazing. I only had about fifteen to twenty minutes to eat, but it was worth every bite and the trip to barcito. I took some pictures, enjoyed the atmosphere, and reflected on the first half of my day at the conference. I’m an introvert, but I do actually enjoy talking to interesting people. I just tend to be too nervous to do so. You can bring much more color into your life when you open yourself up to taking those chances though. It doesn’t mean you have to meet your next best friend or find your all-time favorite restaurant. Instead, it could mean letting go of those everyday fears and letting a little more light from the universe into your life. ¤ Arielle Caraway is an accountant by day and a dreamer by night. She is a firm believer in seeing the beauty of the world in everything you do and hopes to encourage readers to live a life of intention by offering insight into her own journey. In her free time, you can find her putting a dent in her running list of must-reads, catching the latest flick, photographing beautiful things, or just dancing in her living room. aristalights.com Essay Image by Arielle Caraway