HOLL & LA N E A S A N C T UA RY F O R SO UL - F IL L ED STO R IES
2 0 1 8 COL LECTI O N Volu me I Is s ue 15
T HE COURAGE ISSU E Living bravely in t he face of trial and triu mph . 1
Special Thanks To: Jacky Andrews Cover Photographer howlandrose.com June Jolie Cover Model instagram.com/june.jolie
In Every Issue 05 Contributors 06 Regular Contributors Become a Subscriber hollandlanemag.com/subscriptions
09 Editor’s Note
Shop Previous Issues hollandlanemag.com/shop
12 The List
Join our Private Facebook Community facebook.com/groups/HLFamily
82 Dear Soul Sister...
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In This Issue
14 On The Road to Courage Overcoming a paralyzing fear of driving
38 Deep Dive What scuba diving and courage have in common
58 Venturing Outside My Comfort Zone Reconciling who you are now and the ‘old’ you
16 My Narcissistic Mother Standing up to a toxic mother isn’t easy
42 Somewhere Between East and West A bi-racial mom working to instill courage in her bi-racial children
64 The Truth About Friendship It can be scary to confront a friend who takes advantage of you
18 A Sincere Letter to My Attacker A woman who refuses to be a victim any longer
46 Liquid Courage A poem about finding the courage in ourselves
68 Dear Teenage Me Do you ever wish you could give advice to your younger self ?
20 Along for the Ride A boy’s journey with cancer and the unsung heroes who were there every step of the way
48 Adventures in Courage 6 lessons learned after moving 2,000 miles away from home
70 My Definition of Courage How a senseless tragedy redefined courage
26 I Turned Pain into Theater A healing journey of turning pain into art
50 Leap When the choices you make don’t turn out as you’d hoped
74 Season of Rejection Our fears don’t dictate our future
30 Everyday Courage Lessons learned from those who display courage every day
54 Reinvention After Divorce How to reclaim your identity after your marriage ends
76 Putting Myself First What happens when you will no longer compromise your selfworth
34 I Take Medication Because I Want to Live There is no shame in needing help to manage your mental health
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TEAM SARAH HARTLEY Creator / Editor in Chief sarahhartley.net editor@hollandlanemag.com
MIA SUTTON Editorial Manager mia-sutton.com stories@hollandlanemag.com
JESS DOWNEY Social Media Manager chaoticcollected.com
MADISEN QUICK Editor's Assistant instagram.com/madisen.quick assistant@hollandlanemag.com
CONTACT For press and advertising inquiries, contact editor@gmail.com For contributions, contact stories@hollandlanemag.com For stockists, contact assistant@hollandlanemag.com
ABOUT We’re starting a movement towards more honest media, giving your voice and stories a platform to share your honest lives.
SOCIAL instagram.com/hollandlanemag facebook.com/hollandlanemag pinterest.com/hollandlanemag The opinions expressed within each article do not necessarily represent those of the Holl & Lane team.
Thank you to these Patreon sponsors for helping to keep Holl & Lane running: MICHAEL QUICK, BRANDON HARTLEY, JENNIFER DUDLEY, AMANDA FILLIPPELLI, TOM MATTINGLY, JONATHAN WILLIAMS Become a Patreon sponsor by visiting patreon.com/hollandlanemag 4
Contributors Alli Peters Photographer On the Road to Courage allipeters.com
Hannah Carter Writer Dear Soul Sister... twitter.com/hannah3beth
Megan Breton Photographer Putting Myself First branchandbreton.com
Amy Cook Writer The List, Books instagram.com/amy1939
Honey Denson Writer Along for the Ride
Melissa Wert Writer Putting Myself First print-therapy.com
Bethany Morris Writer Venturing Outside My Comfort Zone thefreewoman.com Caique Silva Photographer A Sincere Letter To My Attacker unsplash.com/@caiqueportraits Camila Damásio Photographer I Take Medication Because I Want to Live unsplash.com/@miladamasio Caroline Bennett Writer I Turned Pain into Theater instagram.com/carewrites Chelsea Oliver Writer The List, Music chelsealeeoliver.com
Jen Del Gallo Writer Adventures in Courage Jenn Sutton Photographer My Definition of Courage jennsuttonphotography.com Josh Cheung Photographer I Turned Pain Into Theater Josh Post Photographer My Narcissistic Mother unsplash.com/@posty72 Julia Dent Photographer Liquid Courage thephillyphotoblog.com Katia Navarro Writer A Sincere Letter to My Attacker
Christine Amoroso Writer Everyday Courage barenakedinpublic.com
Kimberly Morand Writer I Take Medication Because I Want to Live
Dijana Szewczyk Photographer The Truth About Friendship dijanaszewczyk.com
LaKay Cornell Writer Leap champagnehippies.com
Dương Trần Quốc Photographer Dear Teenage Me unsplash.com/@fanhungry
Lecy Croson Writer Reinvention After Divorce asimplergrace.blogspot.com
Emily Flanders Writer On The Road to Courage theemitimes.blogspot.com/
Lee Hilty Photographer Deep Dive
Erica Musyt Writer The List, Movies lookingtothestars.com
Lindyn Williams Photographer Venturing Outside My Comfort Zone lindynwilliams.com
Mia Sutton Writer Liquid Courage mia-sutton.com Michael Discenza Photographer Season of Rejection unsplash.com/@mdisc Mindy Renee Jaffar Writer My Definition of Courage mindyrenee.com Rae Schrock Writer Deep Dive instagram.com/raeschrock Rebecca Rice Writer Dear Teenage Me Redd Angelo Photographer Leap unsplash.com/@reddangelo16 S. Dragon Photographer Somewhere Between East and West Sami Ross Writer Season of Rejection shross.com Tasha Burgoyne Writer Somewhere Between East and West coffeeandkimchistories.blogspot.com Tina Floersch Photographer Everyday Courage unsplash.com/@tfloersch
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Regular Contributors AMY COOK, Books Wife and soccer mom by day, nerdy bookworm by night. Lover of wine, literature, pie and all things Gone With The Wind. instagram.com/amy1939
ERICA MUSYT, Movies Erica is a 30-something Virginia native who is passionate about family, friends, and the movies! She buys books faster than she reads them, loves ladybugs and all things purple. A movie star at heart, Erica is delighted to be a contributor to the Holl and Lane movie section! lookingtothestars.com
CHELSEA OLIVER, Music Chelsea Oliver is a lover of life in heels, coffee in hand, who runs the marketing department of a credit union by day and makes sassy stationery for her own business by night. Chelsea is an old soul in a powerlifting millennial body. She craves authenticity while loving every filter on Instagram and tweeting in all caps as necessary. chelsealeeoliver.com CHRISTINE AMOROSO Writer Christine recently traded her role as elementary school principal, and her home in southern California, for a chance to live and write in Italy. She actively seeks opportunities to learn and grow, both personally and professionally. Her stories reflect her personal journey, opening her heart and mind to adventure and endless possibilities. Barenakedinpublic.com SAMI ROSS, Writer Sami is a Chicago-based copywriter by day and Creative by night. Outside of her writing career, she likes to express her creativity through her yoga practice, and is working towards her teacher certification. Currently, her favorite word is erleichda- a Tom Robbin’s creation that means “lighten up.” shross.com
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Regular Contributors GENESIS GEIGER Photographer
Genesis is a lifestyle and natural light photographer currently roaming Cincinnati, OH. In her work, she is moved by the quiet moments that sometimes go unnoticed, determined to capture the details that can get lost in the excitement, and completely captivated by the love that can be shared among humanity. Through it all, Genesis’ passion is to freeze time and bring people together through her work. genesisgeiger.com ALLI PETERS Photographer
Alli is a midwestern photographer and content marketer currently based in Minneapolis, MN. From start to finish, Alli enjoys capturing raw moments - whether they’re of families and friends or landscapes and events, and using these moments to help people connect. allipeters.com
LINDA JOY NEUFELD Photographer
Linda Joy is a Pacific Northwest native who currently calls Chicago “home”. She is passionate about many things, particularly her husband, creativity, and making memories all over this beautiful earth. When she’s not taking photos, you can find her reading or scribbling away her thoughts on either paper or her blog. lindajoy.weebly.com JACKY ANDREWS Photographer
Jacky is a Los Angeles-based natural light lifestyle photographer who specializes in candid family photography. Her images reflect the genuinely loving, spontaneous, and perfectly imperfect moments in life, and her documentary-style photos preserve what makes each family special. howlandrose.com
JAMIE DEURMEIER Photographer
Jamie is a photographer based out of Portland, Oregon, where her love for outdoor adventures and natural beauty is sufficiently satisfied. She's passionate about creating images that capture the inner strength and beauty of her subjects, and believes that the best sessions are ones in which the subjects can feel both vulnerable and empowered. Her goal is to create an environment that allows for her subjects to encounter and express the bold nature within, and simply be there to capture it. jamiedeurmeier.com
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“ WE DON'T DEVELOP COURAGE BY BEING HAPPY EVERY DAY. WE DEVELOP IT BY SURVIVING DIFFICULT TIMES AND CHALLENGING ADVERSITY. BARBARA DE ANGELIS
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PHOTO BY MILOS TONCHEVSKI 8
Editor’s Note Welcome to a new year, and a new direction for Holl & Lane. We’re closing in on our third year of this magazine and with it, it feels like we’re finally figuring things out. We know who we are, we know what we’re here to do, and we’re so excited to have you on this ride with us. The theme of this issue is “Courage” and I have found that that is such a personal word for people. Courage looks different to everyone. What one deems as a huge leap in courage, another can do in her sleep. For me, personally, courage has always felt like a struggle to me. I like the safe zone. I like when I know things are going to work out. I’m a planner, after all. But the biggest leap I’ve taken has been with this magazine. I knew what I wanted and I knew I hadn’t been able to find it elsewhere. So I summoned up all the courage I had in my body and dove head first into something I knew nothing about. I never knew the power that this project could hold, but seeing it firsthand has really shifted my perception of courage in my own life. I’m much more willing to take the leap these days, because, as I tell myself, who knows what could happen. You could have an idea for a side project that turns into a full blown business. And even if it doesn’t, you’ve still learned something from it, and that’s good enough for me. After reading through the articles in this issue, I’d encourage you to think about how you approach courage in your own life. Are you a risk taker? Or do you prefer to have a plan in place? Do you stand up for yourself ? Or do you run away from confrontation? What is the gutsiest thing you’ve done in your life? Take note of it and then be proud. We’re all courageous in our own way and sometimes you just have to take a step back to see all that you’ve done. We’re all brave, in our own ways. Until next time, Sarah Hartley Editor in Chief Correction: In the print version of Issue 14, we incorrectly identified Jessa Gibboney as Jessica Gibboney. We apologize for the mistake.
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THE LIST What we’re reading, watching, and listening to this quarter. READ BY AMY COOK WATCH BY ERICA MUSYT LISTEN BY CHELSEA OLIVER
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READ LIT: A MEMOIR by Mary Karr A controversial topic that everyone can relate to, Mary braves the shame of being a former alcoholic and introduces us to her own life as a (mostly) functioning alcoholic and her fall and rise. Instead of looking back through rose-colored glasses, she recollects her experiences with delicate humor and raw shame. A beautiful read that will open your eyes to the secretive world of alcoholism.
THE WARMTH OF OTHER SUNS: THE EPIC STORY OF AMERICA’S GREAT MIGRATION by Isabel Wilkerson Follow the stories of three African Americans as they courageously leave friends, family, and the only lives they have ever known in the south in pursuit of the American Dream and, more importantly, to escape the reign of Jim Crow and his racist white friends. Follow Ida from Mississippi to Chicago, George from Florida to New York City, and Robert from Louisiana to California (eventually becoming the personal doctor for Ray Charles!) and discover the greatest mass exoduses the United States has ever known.
I AM MALALA: THE GIRL WHO STOOD UP FOR EDUCATION AND WAS SHOT BY THE TALIBAN by Christina Lamb and Malala Yousafzai If you have not read this book about the courageous young lady from Pakistan who was shot in the head by the Taliban for standing up for educational rights of young ladies, you are depriving yourself. A poignant look at terrorism, family, women’s rights and what it means to stand up for what you believe is right, no matter the consequences - I am Malala is a must-read for anyone who needs to remember that there is always a reason to keep fighting.
WATCH COURAGEOUS When a tragedy strikes close to home for Sheriff ’s deputy Adam Mitchell, he bands together with his fellow police officers. Together they take refuge in their religion, signing a pledge vowing to be better Christians and better parents. When one of the men is tempted with earning some fast money, his moral compass is quickly tested.
COURAGE UNDER FIRE Lieutenant Colonel Nathaniel Serling is assigned to investigate the death of Army Captain Karen Walden and her worthiness of the Medal of Honor. Walden was killed in action when her Medevac unit attempted to rescue the crew of a downed helicopter. As Serling’s investigation gets deeper into the details of the event itself, he begins to realize that the crew’s stories don’t add up.
AVING PRIVATE RYAN S Following the Normandy landing, Captain John Miller is assigned to find and save Private James Ryan. Along with his company, Capt Miller goes in search of Private Ryan, whose three brothers have all been killed in combat. While searching for Ryan, each man embarks upon a personal journey while discovering their own strength to triumph over an uncertain future with honor, decency, and courage.
SURPRISE YOURSELF Jack Garratt
PRAYING Kesha
BRAILLE Regina Spektor
RISE UP Andra Day
ANGELS ON THE MOON Thriving Ivory
BRAVE Sara Bareilles
CARRY ON Fun
HEAD FULL OF DOUBT/ROAD FULL OF PROMISE The Avett Brothers
HILLS AND VALLEYS The Rocket Summer
LISTEN
SHAKE IT OUT Florence + The Machine
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On The Road To Courage WORDS BY EMILY FLANDERS IMAGE BY ALLI PETERS
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MARE YOU ENJOYING THIS PREVIEW? ost teens are so excited to learn to drive. I was not one of those teens. Unfortunately for me, I had a fear of driving. You absolutely could not get me to drive a car...not even when I became an adult. When I was young, I always thought about how dangerous cars could be. The thought that it can injure and even kill a person or an animal was terrifying. Even when I was simply a passenger in the car, the thought of being on the road was scary, especially on the highway.
realized that the best option for me was to take some driving lessons and even then it was a battle to finally take those lessons and overcome my fear.
Every year, I would say, “This is the year. I’m taking the lessons”. And every year, I didn’t. Finally, at age 24, I decided that now was the time to really fight this fear. I did some research, found a school that I liked, and contacted an instructor regarding the classes. I selected my schedule and made the payment. Once everything was scheduled, I almost immediately wanted to cancel my classes. I wrote my schedule down, but I tried everything I could to forget about them so that I wouldn't think about canceling my classes.
PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT After the first lesson, my instructor told me what I needed to study and practice. A few days later, I had my second lesson and I drove to places that I normally go to like the grocery store, my mom's house, and some other stores. Everything was going well.
CLICK HERE TO GET THE FULL ISSUE
Although I have had this fear since I was a little girl, that fear intensified once I was 17 years old. One day, I got off work a bit early so my boyfriend (now my husband) and I decided to spend some time together. And as you might guess, I was not supposed to go out with him. I was supposed to go straight home and didn’t even bother to ask my mom if I could hang out with him. As we were on our way to our destination, a woman sideswiped us. I remember screaming and then apparently I passed out. Luckily we were all ok. I will never forget how angry and scared my mom looked. After that incident, I didn’t want to get in a car ever again.
After a few weeks, the day finally came for me to take my first lesson. I was so nervous. My instructor took me to an empty school parking lot for my first lesson. I thought we would just talk about the parts of the car like the brakes, pedal, turn signals, etc. However, he instructed me to get into the driver's side and told me that I would practice in the parking lot. He must have sensed my fear and I’m sure my face showed it. After some encouragement, I got into the driver's side and I drove around the parking lot. I started to feel a bit confident, but then he told me that I would have to get onto the road.
However, on one of my last lessons, my instructor had me drive a bit farther away than usual. I was terrified because there were a lot of cars on the road and it was a rainy day. He finally told me to make a left turn and then I realized that we were going to enter the highway. There was no way to turn around and since I realized too late, I had no choice but to continue to drive. I remember being so scared and my heart felt like it was going to pop out of my chest. My instructor kept talking to me and gave me some tips. Eventually, he instructed me to get off the highway and then we arrived at our destination. He finally told me that he thought I was ready to take my driver’s test at the DMV even though I looked at him like he was insane. We made the appointment for the test and once again, I tried to forget about it.
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OVERCOMING FEAR Once I turned 20 years old, I decided to try and overcome that fear. My husband and I decided to go to an empty parking lot and practice. However, after less than 5 minutes in the driver's seat and barely even moving a foot, I screamed that I needed to get out of the driver's seat. After that, I refused to try again with anyone that I knew. Eventually, I
I remember asking him if he didn’t think it was too soon to actually go out on the road. I just kept thinking of all the things that could go wrong. What if I hit something…a car, a pole, a person! Again after some convincing and encouragement, I drove on the road. Luckily, everything turned out fine.
The day finally came for me to take my test and the fear came back. I made some small mistakes, but I passed the exam! I was so excited. You may think that I have fully conquered this fear, but I’m still working on it because I still refuse to get on the highway. The lessons definitely helped me and I’m happy to say that overall, I am not afraid to drive. I feel confident and brave. &
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N my
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WORDS BY ANONYMOUS IMAGE BY JOSH POST
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never want to write about my mother. I never want to waste time thinking about her, waste pages writing about her in my journal, or waste energy worrying about whether she’ll judge my next decision in a positive or negative light. For far too long, my mother has commanded too much of my attention. My mother has a narcissistic personality. If it doesn’t feed her ego, it doesn’t matter to her. That means when you talk to her, she never asks how you are. It means it’s easier for her to play with your kids than to have an adult conversation with you—her psyche has never developed past the id stage. If you confront her, she will run and hide until you say you’re sorry. If you won’t let her go, she’ll lash out and use her words to hurt you. During a fight with me once, she threatened to kill herself when I told her I needed time apart. Of course, I immediately backtracked—what daughter would want to be blamed for her mother’s suicide? Even if not publicly, the internal shame I’d feel would be forever. My mother, queen of the guilt trip, had won again. STANDING UP The first time I tried to confront my mother about her behavior I called her a bitch. I was sixteen and we were arguing. I can’t tell you what we were arguing about, but I do remember I had just learned the impact this word could have, the hurt it could cause, and I wanted to hurt my mom, badly. “You’re such a bitch!” I screamed, my face inches from hers. She reared back and slapped me across my cheek, not the first time she’d hit me, but the first time on my face, the first time it would leave a noticeable mark. The next time I had the courage to stand up to her I was in college and we were arguing about my major. I wanted to be a journalist; my mother wanted me to be a doctor. But I’d taken some pre-med classes and knew that life wasn’t for me. My mother attacked me, verbally this time. When I came home, she would read the diary entries I carefully penned late at night, so no one would see. That day she said, “Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time giving your boyfriend blowjobs you wouldn’t be ruining your life.” It was college, sex was new. I was still young, innocent. Her words stung. And I graduated with two degrees, one in chemistry and one in English. Neither of which I use in my current career.
She spent so much time telling me who to be, what to be, and how to be it that I lost myself. I couldn’t make a choice until I heard her opinion, whether it swayed me toward a career path or against it. For much of my early twenties, I bounced from job to job, wondering what I was supposed to do when I grew up. I did know I wanted to have a family, and that I would be a better mother than she ever was. I would love my children unconditionally, for starters. The rest would come. I was reviewing old journal entries recently, and I saw that for the past five years, all I had been doing was complaining about my mother. How sad she made me. How much I hated her. Even, on my worst days, how I wished she was dead, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with her drama anymore. Every entry, year to year, was invariably the same. I hated her. I wanted her out of my life. But I couldn’t control what she was doing to me any more than I could control the anxiety I felt every time the caller ID flashed her name on my phone. Slowly, it dawned on me: this problem of my mother is not going away. A close friend explained once that dealing with my mother is my “life’s work.” As hard as it was to hear at the time, and as hard as it still is to think about, it’s true. So now, I am working on healthy boundaries. My mother and I have a cordial relationship, one I like to refer to as the Polite Stranger. I treat her like I would any stranger: I’m polite, but I don’t reveal too much of myself. I don’t share about my relationships or my worries, the way I imagine many daughters do with their mothers. Instead, I steer the conversation toward her. I allow her to talk about herself, I listen to her lies and exaggerations, and I comment when necessary. I don’t give her too much of myself, and I don’t imagine she’s giving too much of herself to me. I have let go of the fantasy that our relationship will ever become one of true friendship. It hurts, but mostly, it’s okay. I know that I’m the one who longs for a more loving, compassionate mother, and it’s not my fault I didn’t get one. I am working on grieving the mother I wish I had, giving myself grace to be the person I am, and loving myself no matter what. This is my life’s work. And one day, I will overcome it. &
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a sincere letter to my attacker WORDS BY KATIA NAVARRO IMAGE BY CAIQUE SILVA 18
Dear attacker, It’s been a year since it happened, a whole year of me trying to look for ways to undo what you’ve done. Trying to put all my pieces back together. Do you think I’ve found a solution? NO. Because there is no solution to what you’ve done to me, there is no turning back, I can’t erase it from my memories no matter how hard I’ve tried. Seven months of therapy and I still can’t say out loud what you did to my body. Do you know how mad that makes me? Do you know the process I’ve been through to overcome this? Do you know how exhausting and difficult it has been for me? NO, YOU DON’T. You know why? Because you don’t even know that what happened between us wasn’t consensual. I told you ‘no’ repeatedly and you still wouldn’t stop. How could you not understand that I didn’t want that?
ARE YOU ENJOYING THIS PREVIEW? You took my sense of security. I can’t even walk to the supermarket without feeling like someone is going to assault me again. I can’t make new guy friends and I can’t even have a nice conversation with a stranger without having the thought of him assaulting me in the back of my head. Do you have any idea how messed up that is? I lost all my faith in people and it’s been hard trying to get that back.
CLICK HERE TO GET THE FULL ISSUE Before I met you, I was an affectionate person with EVERYONE I met. Now, the thought of someone I don’t know touching me gets my anxiety to 100%. I hate that about myself. I hate that you made me this person and I FUCKING HATE that you have no idea that I’m going through this.
I’ve thought about contacting you and telling you what a piece of shit you are, but you know what? It terrifies me. It terrifies me the idea of having to ever see you again, of being a victim of sexual assault again, because of course, in your eyes, I’m the drunk slut girl that you can take advantage of whenever you want.
One time I swore I saw you at the airport and I was so close to fainting. My palms were sweating, my heart was beating so loud the person standing in line behind me could hear it, my legs were numb, and you were approaching me. I felt like this was it, I was going to faint and I was alone, I felt vulnerable again. But when I got a closer look, I realized it wasn’t you. And in that moment, I saw how much power you still have over me. I got so mad right after, I swear, there was smoke coming out of my ears. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
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I’ve done so much and I’ve worked so hard and I still feel so afraid that I might run into you or that someone will do what you did to me again. From the bottom of my broken heart, I hope I was the first and last girl you assaulted because imagining how someone could go through the same journey that I’m going through brings me to tears. Still, I was lucky. I was lucky it didn’t escalate to rape, that I got away, that after a while you finally understood the real meaning of ‘no’. I was lucky that I’m alive to tell my story because some girls/boys don't have the same opportunity as me. If I’d known that I could report you to the police or to some authority at the time, I would’ve, but to my disadvantage, the society we live in makes you believe that it’s the victim’s fault. That it’s my fault because I was wearing provocative clothes, it’s my fault because I was drunk, it’s my fault because I passed out at a party, it’s my fault because I was walking alone, it’s my fault because I didn’t say no, it’s my fault. But after all this time, I can say that it wasn’t my fault, it was yours. Sincerely, A girl that refuses to be a victim ever again
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along for the
RIDE WORDS & IMAGES BY HONEY DENSON
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Courage in the face of cancer isn’t easy for anyone, especially if you’re the parent of a young child who is afflicted with the disease. Here, we follow Honey as she shares her son’s journey with cancer, but also the story of the unsung heroes who helped them every step of the way.
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our child has cancer.
Those words start a journey that’s like being put on the world’s scariest roller coaster against your will. There are slow climbs with terrifying drops, twists, turns, tunnels, and loops that leave you clinging on for dear life. There is no choice. It is a trip that the child, parents, and siblings must embark on. No matter how many tears are shed or cries of despair uttered or pleas for it all to stop, there is no getting off. That’s what it felt like when my son was diagnosed with Myelodysplastic Syndrome (MDS), a type of blood cancer similar to Leukemia, and the only cure was a bone marrow transplant. The first one failed. The second one took. Just as we thought the nightmare ride was rolling into the station and we could disembark and get on with our lives, the word relapse was uttered, and, instead of coming to a stop, our journey started all over again. Unfortunately, he would not survive the ride, and we were left to mourn what could have been. My son showed remarkable courage throughout this journey. I could easily write a book on how proud I am of how he handled the needles, chemotherapy, side effects, and coming to terms with the horrible news that he would not grow up. Realizing that all of his hopes and dreams that would never come to fruition. People often remark on how courageous my husband and I were. The truth is we weren’t. We had no choice in this. The only thing that kept us going every day was a primal instinct to protect our young. He was our baby, and we would have walked to the ends of the earth to make him better again, but we had neither the knowledge nor the ability to cure him. Every morning I asked God for the strength and courage to face one more day, because it was only through that supernatural strength and the support of our medical team, family, and friends that we got through this. The truly courageous people are the wonderful team of doctors and nurses who willingly came on this nightmare journey with us. THE PERFECT TEAM When our son was a baby, he had trouble putting on weight. The doctors thought it was a milk supply problem on my end, so we switched to formula. It didn’t work. We spent most of his babyhood going from specialist to specialist trying to find an answer for his failure to thrive, mysterious rashes, and strange blood counts. When he was 10 months old, his platelets, the cells that act as the band-aids of the body, suddenly dropped. Our pediatrician referred us to a
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hematologist, Dr. H., who ordered his first bone marrow biopsy and became our main doctor. After several more tests, we finally had an answer, Shwachman-Diamond Syndrome (SDS). As relieved as we were to know what was going on, the diagnosis came with an uncertain future. He had a high risk of bone marrow failure or cancer, as SDS leads to MDS and then Leukemia. In the Spring of 2016, our worst fears came true. Over the years we’ve come into contact with many different types of doctors. Some were complete jerks. There’s no nice way to describe their bedside manner. But that was never the case with our team at Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital hematology/oncology group. These doctors are trying their hardest to find cures for diseases with very little funding or support. Only 4% of all cancer research funding goes to pediatric cancer, and many of the treatment options are based on what is done for adults. What a daunting task it must be to try and figure out exactly what to do for a child to save their life. It was hard finding the right course of treatment for our son due to his underlying SDS and having no matches in the bone marrow registry. Our doctor contacted specialists from Boston to Seattle trying to find the best treatment for our son’s tricky case. During the course of his chemotherapy regimens, our son spiked a fever while his doctor was on vacation. The rest of the team contacted him at the beach to ask him a question about our son’s care. When I expressed sadness that his vacation was interrupted, one of the doctors looked me in the eye and said, “He would do anything for your son.” He did. He never gave up and did everything he could. Dr. H had been our son’s doctor since he was a baby. We’ve gotten to know and respect him. He’s a brilliant man who genuinely cares for his patients, and I can’t imagine how much courage it took for him to call me and deliver the news of the initial cancer diagnosis, along with the news that there was nothing else to be done. He wasn’t on duty that day, but he called us personally from his home. I could hear his young daughter playing happily in the background as he gave us the news. He wanted to tell us himself instead of leaving it to one of the staff who didn’t know us as well. He then came to the hospital and met with us to discuss what was going to happen next. He willingly came, sacrificing family time, to sit with two grieving parents to make sure we were okay and to give us an honest outlook on what lay ahead. I know they’re trained to do this, but I can’t imagine that it gets any easier with time, and I will forever be thankful for his courage and compassion. ›››
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The rest of our doctors were equally wonderful. Our son found out that Dr. C is terrified of snakes, so when he came in to do rounds, there would be a (fake) snake waiting for him under the covers. Dr. C would give just the response he was hoping for. Dr. T was our palliative care doctor. It takes a special, courageous person to go into this field. They mostly deal with pain management, but they are also in charge of all the hospice patients making sure that their passing is as comfortable as possible. They get close to these children learning what they love to do, what makes them happy, and how to make sure that they live the best quality of life for the time that they have. It is not a job for the faint of heart.
and yell at them the next. Every single one of them walked into our room with a smile on their face and did their best to make sure that our son was as happy and comfortable as they could make him. When we found out our son wasn’t going to make it, one of our favorite nurses was on duty. I could see in her eyes that she was hurting for us and our son, but she put on a smile and interacted with us with a cheerfulness that helped make the most difficult day of our lives to that point bearable. Before her shift ended, she pulled me into a bear hug and whispered in my ear that I was a wonderful mother, and that I had done everything I could. For a moment, all I could do was cry into her shoulder as she held me. After I pulled away, I could see the tears in her eyes before she turned around and left. She loved our boy just as she loved all the patients on the floor.
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Our wonderful, brave nurses - they’re the unsung heroes of every hospital. These smart, caring men and women who know more about the human body than I would ever want to know. They soothingly rub backs while children throw up, take stool samples, and have to deal with emotional parents and children who might smile at them one minute
WHY THEY DO IT Pediatric cancer is not for the faint of heart and I would frequently ask the nurses why they picked that department over all the other options. One was a cancer survivor herself. Another had a son who had survived cancer and two bone marrow transplants. Overall, most of them went into pediatric cancer care because they want to make a difference. They want to help stop this beast, and, if they can’t, try to make the end of life easier for the children and families under their care. To walk willingly to a job every day and try to fight death with the most vulnerable among us takes a great deal of courage, and we will forever be thankful for those men and women. Our doctors and nurses were not the only part of our son’s care team. Vanderbilt also employs a team of therapists. There were days when our son just wanted to be left alone; however, they could often get a smile out of him even when we couldn’t. Their job is to bring joy to a place that is not associated with happiness, and they do it with such genuine enthusiasm.
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People remark how they don’t think they could do what we did with our son. I would say that yes they could. There is no choice, no getting off the ride, and no stopping the inevitable. We’re just trying to survive. Admire the courage of those who make the choice to face cancer and fight it every day through their work. They are the real heroes in the war against cancer, and they continue to fight in the hopes that no more parents will have to bury their children and face a lifetime of “If only…”. &
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I Turned Pain into Theater
WORDS BY CAROLINE BENNETT // HEADER IMAGE BY JOSH CHEUNG
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ast summer, I wrote a play. I called it Garbage Person Karaoke. It was about how I healed after an abusive relationship. Almost as soon as I finished it, I saw it come to life. First in a tiny off-Broadway theater, and then at Washington, DC’s Capital Fringe Festival. This meant that for several nights, I’d sit in a dark theater and watch three copies of myself recount traumas I’d endured, revenge fantasies I’d concocted, and cartoonish surreal outbursts I’d lobbed at my therapist. The experience was exhilarating. And at times terrifying. I thought I was ready to endure it. But I hadn’t accounted for other people’s reactions. Imagine a room packed with people, many of whom you know from different life contexts. The friend you tell everything to, the uncle who knows nothing about your love of four-letter words, the co-worker you don’t interact with outside of an occasional “hey, how was your weekend?” All of them are buzzing with excitement. They know a playwright! How cool and exciting! What an event! Then the lights go down, the room gets quiet, and everyone watches an actor playing you in one of the worst moments of your life. When the person you loved screamed at you on a street corner for a full hour and then left for good. And you somehow didn’t die. You’re in this crowded theater, too. And you can see everyone’s faces. It is impossible not to fixate on the faces. Many of them are strangers. At a certain point every night, some of them start crying. This may be the most unnerving part: looking at wet, wide-eyed faces who don’t know you, and feeling a mix of wonder and guilt that you caused it. A second later, the whole room bursts into a laugh (sometimes a really loud one) and that feels strange, too. The tense back-and-forth between silence and laughter persists throughout the whole play. Your audience witnesses a pie-slaughtering 1950’s housewife, a fake dating app with a dirty name, and a group of classy, swearing ballerinas. Then the house lights slowly come back up, and heads turn to try and find you, the strange girl who wrote this strange show that made them feel something. You take a deep breath to prepare yourself for the receiving line of audience member reactions. ›››
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Your close friend buys you a drink and gives you a long, warm hug. Your uncle asks if you actually lived with this person, if that housewife scene was true. The co-worker fills up with tears and says if they’d known what was happening, they would have tried to help, that they were in a similar situation at the time, too. It is all heartfelt and exhausting on a level you never expected. You were strong (or brazen) enough to make this thing happen. Now you’re being heard. And every single strange, wonderful second is worth it.
the wave of thoughts I would never be able to say to my ex. Weeks after the success at Fringe, that ex resurfaced. “Want to catch up?” Did he know about what I’d done? Was he going to scream at me again? What could he possibly have to say?
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Not everybody likes the play.
I was scared. Of course. But more than that, I was tired of being scared. I wanted to face the monster and move past him. So I said yes. He had not heard about the play. And he also appeared to have complete amnesia about our relationship. The monster who ripped me apart now wanted to meet where we’d had our first date. Once there, he rattled through the same conversations he’d used to first impress me. His life in Japan. New York. His distaste for “normal” people and celebrities. It was a thin attempt at "cool" that barely masked his constant, simmering anger.
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A local magazine offered to write a review for every Fringe show. As a favor. But in our review, the writer admitted to never having gone through a breakup, and he ripped us apart. He didn’t understand why one scene had a woman “just screaming about penises,” or why the whole show couldn’t have been about the hilarity of the fake dating app. Then he gave us a withering 2.5 stars out of 4. I have certainly received better favors. I was devastated. That same day was also our smallest audience, who sat in silence almost the entire time. My stomach felt like ice. I couldn’t believe I had been oblivious and self-absorbed enough to put something like this into the world. By the end of the hour, I’d convinced myself that the review was true and that the show was actual garbage.
Then he invited me back to his apartment. Just like our first date. Except this time, I declined. “Fine,” he said.
I was amazed. I had been put through the ringer of feeling, processing, and healing. And he had done nothing. But at the very least, it would make a good story. &
But my friend Alex watched it that same day and saw something different. He told me it was great, really dark, funny, and moving, and that I should be really proud of myself. Then he bought me a drink and gave me a hug. The perfect friend response, right when I needed it. Alex also defended me by adding a comment to the review itself. “This show might have gone over the reviewer’s head,” he wrote. “It is, in fact, the drawn-out, more painful moments, including the penis-listing, that make the show so poignant.”
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Two days later, Garbage Person sold out. The theater was at capacity, so I had to stay in the lobby. I pretended to read a book (or rather, the same paragraph 500 times) against the now-booming laughter, cheers, and applause. It was overwhelming.
“What is that play downstairs?” a Fringe box office person asked. I beamed. “It’s mine.” &&& Garbage Person Karaoke began as a vehicle to go through
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Everyday
he stadium rumbles as thousands chant and cheer. Others scramble to find their seats as the game is about to begin. In the midst of chaos, I see him, cheek pressed against his brother’s shoulder. He holds his hand tightly, eyes darting, his expression timid and unsure as they push through the crowded steps. He appears to be in his early twenties, and his brother near the same age. Sensing his fear, his brother gently pats the young man’s hand, a gesture of reassurance. I do not know them, yet my memories and experiences compel me to tell their story in my head. A typical boy, a brother born with Down Syndrome, early life lessons of compassion, caring, and courage shape their relationship and his character. A different path led me to those important lessons. I remember fondly two older boys, neighborhood kids, and patiently explaining the rules of childhood games so that they could play, too. Youthful innocence kept me ignorant of their disabilities or their futures. Decades later, my work would include the care and education of children with special needs.
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In the beginning, I prided myself in leading a team with efficiency and fairness, abiding by labels and laws to determine a child’s educational program. I kept my emotions in check to ensure sound decision-making. The daily grind took a toll on my heart. Looking back, I imagine I appeared cold to a parent desperately seeking more for their child. When an angry, teary-eyed mother looked me square in the eyes and declared, 'You just don’t care about kids," I consoled myself with the knowledge that I lost sleep over their children’s well-being. That certainly qualified me as caring... at least I thought it did. My internal justification could not relieve the pain of stinging words nor an attack on my professional intentions. I clung tightly to the belief that I was doing the best I could. Still, reflection and a nagging voice inside told me to keep searching, to do better. Turns out my pride and judgment had me believing I knew best. Holding fast to predetermined ideas about parents and their motives and children and their abilities, influenced my decisions. Toning down my ego and giving up preconceived notions opened my mind to new possibilities. ›››
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CLICK HERE TO GET THE FULL ISSUE Courage Seeing these parents and students with fresh eyes, I imagined and often witnessed their difficult paths. Empathy is a powerful equalizer. I watched and listened as nearly every interaction or encounter reminded them of their children’s daily hurdles and disabilities. Your son isn’t making progress. Your daughter continues to struggle with friendships. Your child’s constant outbursts disrupt the learning of others. The scores indicate your child is cognitively disabled. Your child demonstrates autistic-like behavior. Even well-meaning words of encouragement and hope were constant reminders.
settings, when it was harder to be hopeful and tears flowed, we kept our eyes on the prize... the success of their child. I am reminded of the valuable lessons of courage they modeled for their children and for me. Without fail they told me repeatedly that it was their children who were their teachers, their heroes, the brave ones. I smiled in agreement. These little heroes proved to us, again and again, they were so much bigger than labels and stereotypes as they succeeded despite the obstacles. They have great purpose in this life as they teach us the meaning of courage. We only have to be willing to listen and learn. As I travel a new path, I think of them often. I see them everywhere braving new challenges in parks, soccer stadiums, and schoolyards along the way and I quietly honor their everyday courage. &
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It wasn’t long before my bias gave way to admiration and respect for these parents and families as they prepared unwilling children for another day at school, ignored the disapproving looks as their child melted down once more, carelessly hit another child while spinning in circles, or pushed and shoved to get the attention of their classmates as they had not yet learned the appropriate language to express their needs. When I could, I offered words of support, remarking on their solid parenting and patience. They just shook their heads and smiled. In more private
WORDS BY CHRISTINE AMOROSO IMAGE BY TINA FLOERSCH
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YOU ARE
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NOT ALONE.
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i take medication because i want to live WORDS BY KIMBERLY MORAND // HEADER IMAGE BY CAMILA DAMÁSIO
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N
o, this room is too loud, I thought. The muffled conversations of people outside two floors below, his keyboard clicks, the skin rubbing between my husband’s nervous hands, the jazz music streaming in the waiting room; it pierced my ears and I squeezed my eyelids just enough to divert my attention on a tear in his carpet. It collected into a tangle of knots like the pit in my stomach. It reminded me of brown worms. “I think it’s time you went to the hospital,” my psychiatrist said. “What?” I shot up from the couch and my psychiatrist calmly said, “OK, Kim. Please have a seat. Let’s talk. Can I give you a medicine that will help calm you down? Your brain is firing off too quickly.” “Babe, you’re sick. Please,” my husband whispered. I nodded my head. The small yellow pill melted on my tongue and within minutes, all of my “brilliant” thoughts that had collided against one another at a breakneck pace, now stuck in time. The itch under my skin was barely noticeable. I felt mentally far yet my body anchored to the earth by cement. “The doctor pulled a plug on my head,” was the last thing I remember saying to my husband before I fell asleep. It was the next day in a tiny ER exam room when my psychiatrist told me that I had Bipolar Type 2. I was dressed head to toe in everything pink. He handed me new prescriptions – my official societal label as “the crazy person”. My head swirled. I was originally diagnosed with postpartum depression and that was going to eventually go away because the internet had told me so. But Bipolar Disorder meant forever. At the pharmacy, I swayed at the counter as the pharmacist filled my order, checking, double checking, whatever it is they do so well, but she was taking too long. I could feel people starting to stare. They knew. They all knew. When she finally arrived with my shockingly big brown bag, I blurted out loud, “I’m bipolar OK! I am very sick!” I never returned to that pharmacy again. ›››
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SEEING THE WORLD PROPERLY It's six years later. There have been many medication and dosage changes, side effects, ups and downs, successes, setbacks, but I am still here fighting and I am still taking medicine. Without medication, I wouldn’t be able to make it out of bed in the morning; inversely, I’d still be up in the late hours of the night ordering art printed on vintage encyclopedia pages. That really happened.
oil in places I didn’t know existed just because your Aunt Karen suggested that I try that to cure my crippling anxiety. (That’s not a thing. I just made that up so don’t do that.) My psychiatrist gave me medicine. I am allowed to take it. It works for me. I am not ashamed to take medication to treat an illness that has dragged me through the depths of hell and has held my brain hostage for weeks and months on end. I’m not ashamed to take medication so that I am able to get off this roller coaster and see the world like you do. I want to enjoy life with my family.
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Life is not supposed to have such sharp edges that it hurts to almost breathe. I know this because without proper medication I watch people, stable people, you people, go about your day without any effort at all. You are completely unfazed by colours that are too bright, sounds that are too loud, and gravity – your feet seem to float across the pavement whereas I am struggling to carry triple my weight in cinderblocks on my shoulders during my depressive episodes. You laugh when you should, cry when you should, get angry, elated, terrified, and stressed when you should.
I want that. I don’t want to suffer eating kale, jogging around the block to get fresh air, and rubbing coconut
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I did not choose this illness but I do choose to take medication. I want to ask you this: would you tell someone who has cancer to try yoga or to smile more before trying chemotherapy? Then why would you tell me, someone who battles thoughts of suicide – that’s a life and death situation – to try these things instead of trying to take medicine? Taking medication for my mental health doesn’t make me weak. Taking medication means that I need help. I’m OK with receiving help because I want to live. &
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deep d i v e WORDS BY RAE SCHROCK // IMAGES BY LEE HILTY
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LYOU ENJOYING THIS PREVIEW? ARE ast January, I jotted down a goal for 2017: “Do something that scares me.”
I am on a journey to freedom from the crippling, silencing, and defeating fear that has ruled my life. It was a hunger for the abundance of courageous living that prompted me to write this goal, and it was this hunger that stopped me from immediately saying no when some friends invited me to try something new: scuba diving.
The ocean, with its power and unpredictability, is one of my oldest fears, and the thought of descending forty feet into it filled me with palm-sweating angst. Still, I knew I had to go.
CLICK HERE TO GET THE FULL ISSUE At the beach, fifty pounds of gear were hoisted onto my back and we shuffled down the sand and to the water. A dozen worst-case scenarios raced through my mind. I lose my mask and I drown. We meet a shark. I forget to breathe on the way up and my lungs explode. I get lost from the group. Even as I stepped into the waves, my stomach churned with fear. While we bobbed like corks, the instructor went over last-minute reminders. Then he confirmed, “Ready?” and together we deflated our vests and began the slow descent. As I felt myself detaching from the surface of the water, the only part of the ocean I’ve ever known, I had the panicky urge to flail my way up as fast as I could. The oxygen was awkward in my mouth and I had to think about how to breathe.
Deep, deeper into a turquoise abyss. Heart pounding in my ears. Do I really want to do this? Underwater, there is almost perfect silence. The only thing that breaks it is the sound of your own breathing: a sharp whoosh on inhale, a bubbling lupluplup on exhale. “I am alive”, it says; “I am here, in the now.” For a woman who has lived charging from one thing to the next, the slow, steady sound of my own breathing was almost overwhelming. Whoooooosh. Lupluplup. Whoooooosh. Lupluplup.
My feet softly struck the ocean floor, and I gazed around, astonished. Nothing could have prepared me for the splendor I had drifted into. This was a mysterious, radiant place, with beauty so present it made my chest hurt.
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Time slowed. Breathing slowed. Racing heart slowed. Curtains of sunlight wove through the liquid tapestry around me; below, sand fluttered in a slow dance. An iridescent fish drifted lazily past, unconcerned by our intrusion. I folded my arms the way the instructor had shown me; a position that keeps flailing arms from striking fragile underwater plants, and is, I think, a posture of surrender. Quietly gliding forward in this way, we admit, “I am not here to disrupt, change, or control. I am here to see.” And see I did. Schools of glittering, sapphire fish flashing past. An eel poking its head from a giant piece of twisted metal. A patriarch sea turtle heading for the open sea. A fragile, plum-colored shell resting in the sand. Underwater, you can’t hurry. Everything moves in slow, deliberate motion, and the sensation is of weightlessness – physically and mentally. Even as my body floated effortlessly, I felt my anxiety seeping away, leaving my mind buoyed by wonder. For forty splendid minutes, I explored a world of exquisite beauty and amazing complexity, every moment expectant with some new discovery. ›››
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I’ll never forget a moment, near the end of the dive, when I rolled over on my back and looked upward. A curtain of turquoise water stretched between me and the surface, so clear and still that it seemed I was suspended in pale blue air. Fractured sunshine ribboned the water as far as I could see, all the way to the edge where the land falls into the open ocean. The sight was so dazzling that tears sprang to my eyes. I am here; I get to be in this.
ARE YOU ENJOYING THIS PREVIEW? That day, I returned to the surface with new eyes, realizing this: fear might free me from taking risks, but it will also enslave me to a life devoid of wonder. Leaving the safety of shore, I am baptized with beauty that only dwells in the secret places of the deep. I could not know how important this lesson would become.
CLICK HERE TO GET THE FULL ISSUE DEEP WATERS WAITING In April, my mother underwent a risky 10-hour surgery for a massive brain tumor. As we waited, fear clutched my throat; my heart nearly pounding out of my chest each time my dad’s phone rang with an update from the OR. When she finally emerged from surgery, my mother’s body was swollen and her face nearly unrecognizable. She did not waken for 18 hours. I stood by her, choking back tears; wondering if my mama was still inside this bruised body. The ventilator hummed. Whoooosh. Lupluplup.
Every breath reminding me, “Life is fragile. And I am here, in the now, granted the gift of her.”
As the days turned into weeks and life-altering complications, I felt myself sinking deep into the unexpected waters of what had happened. We were detached from the surface of life as we had always known it, and I fought the urge to flail frantically back to the surface. I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t want to do this. But during her month-long stay in the hospital, I saw my mother and the gift of life with new eyes. These were the wonders of deep waters, cupped in the unexpected: washing her long hair and trying to convince her that the soap dispenser wasn’t a bald, toothless old man; watching a Nashville sunset from the ICU, grateful for another day; witnessing the depths of my mom’s courage through many procedures, difficult conversations, and sleepless nights. Never have I been more aware of life’s fragility; never have I been more awestruck by its resilience.
I began to still my internal flailing and bend my soul in a posture of surrender; declaring my faith in God and the bigger story He was writing: “I am not here to change, or disrupt, or control. I am here to see.” Thus bent, numbing fear began to lift, leaving my mind sustained by gratitude.
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I’ll never forget a moment, near the end of my mom’s hospital stay, when I sat watching her sleep. The room was quiet except for the hum of machines, and I watched her chest rise and fall, every breath a gift. Outside, dusk wove ribbons of gold through the tapestry of sky, and a song played softly: “From the fear of serving others From the fear of death or trial From the fear of humility, Deliver me, O God. And I shall not want… When I taste your goodness, I shall not want.”
I know that there will be deep waters in the future, and I will have to choose the safety of shore or the risk of the deep. I pray that in those moments, I will cross from fear to wonder, trusting that in the secret, unpredictable deep is a beauty more wonderful than anything I have yet known. &
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somewhere between
east and west WORDS BY TASHA BURGOYNE // IMAGES BY S. DRAGON
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M
y Grandpa Dallas was a storyteller. He and my Grandma Margie lived in a little ranch home on a cul-de-sac street that backed up against a rickety, low gate, and just beyond that, a field with horses. Their central coast California town was quaint and quiet as I remember it, much like their lives. Whenever we came to visit, we would find my grandpa in his mustard and brown plaid chair, reading a western novel. He would tell me about whatever book he was reading and about each of the characters in detail. His own story was full of details that fascinated me as a young girl. Born to Dutch parents who immigrated to the United States to begin a new life, his own life began in Nebraska and then continued on a homestead in South Dakota. Months before my grandpa passed away, I remember sitting by him at a family gathering. My dad and uncles were having a heated discussion about politics in the living room and my mom and aunts were in the kitchen. I sat by my grandpa who was sitting in a brown armchair. He was tired that day and quiet like he’d become ever since my grandma had gotten sick. At some point, while we both listened to the men’s loud voices and the women clanking dishes in the kitchen, he turned towards me and looked directly into my eyes and said, “You are going to become a prophet.” MY ROOTS I visited the Netherlands as an adult, and none of the locals believed me when I told them that part of my heritage was Dutch. Without words, their wide-eyed disbelief said my Korean roots canceled out my Dutch ones. My dad grew up in a small town in California. His first job was delivering glass milk jars by truck in the pre-dawn hours of the morning. His little town was fairly racially homogenous when he was young. He remembers it being 70% white and 30% Latino. He didn’t see an Asian American person until he went to college. Years later, he would bring my mom, a Korean girl, into his parents’ home and introduce her as his fiancée.
“ I AM A WOMAN FULL OF STORIES THAT RISE BETWEEN THE EAST AND THE WEST. I AM AN AMERICAN MOTHER, AND MY BI-RACIAL IDENTITY MAKES ME NONE THE LESSER FOR IT.
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My mom’s side is full of mystery, like a coveted book with pages missing. I never met my Korean grandparents because they both died while my mom was still young. She told me stories from her memories of them: Haraboji was a police officer and Halmoni carried my mom on foot for days through a war-torn countryside. When my mom speaks of her memories of them, I see pictures of strength. I see my mom’s strength, feisty perseverance, and survival despite so much grief. ›››
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My mom’s side gave generously to my dark hair, dark skin, and using food as a love language. These very things made it unbelievable to those in the West that I could be like them, and yet, the first time I went to Korea, my sister and I were spat on by Korean school boys for not being Korean enough. My western side was obvious in the East and my eastern side obvious in the West. My history is that of Dutch potato farmers who became American immigrants, who became South Dakota homesteaders, who lived through The Great Depression to tell new stories.
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My history is that of Korean city dwellers who faced war and poverty, and a woman who lost everything and survived with one tiny suitcase of belongings and recipes that would bring her and her stories back to life. For years, I measured and weighed my bi-racial identity. I tried to stack up the stories I knew, the preferences I felt, and the opinions of others I’d heard. I wanted anyone and everyone to tell me who I was. Did I lean more towards one side than the other? Which side was the better side? It felt like everyone wanted me to choose. The directions on the census said to choose one box. Any one choice would’ve been a lie.
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LOVING ALL PARTS OF ME And yet, here’s what I have come to embrace and love despite the war of sides that I let wage on within me: I am a woman full of stories that rise between the East and the West. I am an American mother, and my bi-racial identity makes me none the lesser for it.
I see it much more clearly now: listening to the stories of our lives and our heritage requires courage. It’s an even braver thing to embrace the truth of these stories and take up our own position of storyteller. It’s in the stories I’ve heard that God has used to awaken my spirit and free my voice. I see it woven through the Bible stories of my faith, too. God often brought what seemed like opposing people, or opposing cultures, together, and despite the distance and brokenness, made something new, good, unimaginatively beautiful, and redemptive.
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My children are a mix of the East and West in every way, biological and adopted, and I know that they need to hear me tell them my stories so they have tools to live out their own. They will need these tools to chart new places, own their stories, and courageously choose to love themselves as they do. Brené Brown wrote, “Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we will ever do.” Telling stories is the way I work to instill courage and confidence in my kids. I tell them the stories of those very different than them. I tell them the truth with words, food, and art. I tell them stories as if the stories are hidden treasures. I let them see how stories keep sadness and also urge towards the hope of healing. Even if they walk through seasons when they reject these stories, I will keep telling them like the prophet my grandpa called out in me. Being a storyteller is an imperative role of motherhood, not just for me and my children, but for every child. One day they will be called on to build bridges between seemingly impossible distances of race, country, and culture in the world, and within themselves. They will build the bridges of tomorrow with stories. &
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LIQUID COURAGE Liquid courage The tears running down my face The sweat pouring out of me The blood pounding in my ears I grit my teeth I fist my hands I steel my gaze I gather my determination I can do this It’s a refrain from the deep The abyss of my soul Reaching down with arms too short But somehow holding on for dear life I can do this Yesterday’s failure is old news Second attempt becomes third Try, try again Ignoring doubt, my old friend Liquid courage The tears of joy The sweat of accomplishment The blood of life I can do this
WORDS BY MIA SUTTON // IMAGE BY JULIA DENT
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Adventures in Courage WORDS & IMAGES BY JEN DEL GALLO
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ust. Breathe. This is happening. Time to put my money where my mouth is. Is this crazy?! I will never wear winter boots again! I will swim ALL YEAR LONG! I will miss my family so much. Am I really going to do
school in Orange County, California, which I knew from countless viewings of The OC and Laguna Beach. In less than two months, I applied to grad school, was interviewed and accepted, packed all my belongings into my 2002 red Mazda Protegé and moved to sunny California.
These thoughts, along with many emotions, rumbled around my head. What I had been talking about for YEARS was finally happening. I was moving from Minnesota to California!
It has been a little over six years since what I affectionately call my “California Birthday”, the day I moved to the coast. Trying to share everything I’ve learned in this time of adventures, lessons, mishaps, mistakes, victories, and challenges would take a while. So instead, here are six pearls of wisdom I have learned over the last 2,231 days (in no particular order). ›››
this?
How did I get to this moment? Long story short: after college, I stumbled upon becoming a Marriage and Family Therapist, which required graduate school. I found a
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CHOOSE YOUR FRIENDS WISELY. In six years, I have befriended many people, some I shouldn’t have and some I would choose over and over again. People will always want to speak into your life and try to tell you how to act, what to think, how to talk, and what to believe. Choose wisely who speaks into your life. I chose poorly in the past and have learned from those painful experiences. Now I choose people who build me up and spur me on to be the best version of myself but will also hold my hand in the hard times. There are so many wonderful kindred spirits out there, don’t waste your time on people who don’t deserve your friendship. MY FAMILY MEMBERS ARE MY HEROES. Hands down. They are the kindest, caring, humble, empathetic, and loving people I know. They cheered me on in my decision to move, so much so that my mom road-tripped with me, my dad flew out a week later to be with us (and eat all the In&Out burgers he could), and my brother came a couple months later to celebrate my birthday. They always supported me, even when I doubted my decision to move and said, “Maybe I just needed a trip to California instead of moving here”. We’ve stayed in touch via phone, text, emails, Skype, and snail mail. They made the distance not seem as far and the times together in the same space more precious. I am their biggest fan!
LIFE IS A JOURNEY. CHEESY BUT TRUE. If I would have known where the past six years would lead me, I might have just stayed in my comfort zone of Minnesota. I wouldn’t have gone through heartache, money problems, job searching, friendships ending, and so many tears I can’t keep track. But I also wouldn’t have found out that I am strong, determined, resilient, courageous, daring, and brave. Life is a journey and because of that I am not the same person I was six years ago and that is beautiful.
LAUGHTER IS ALWAYS THE BEST MEDICINE. Always.
THERAPY IS UNDERRATED. I’d never gone to therapy in my life, so I thought it would be wise to see what it was like as a client before I became the therapist. This was one of the BEST decisions I have made since moving to California (second only to marrying my best friend and now husband). My therapist was the most gentle, kind-hearted, and patient woman. She taught me the importance of emotions. That it’s OK to cry and sit in hard moments. Through my walk with her, I learned how to become the best version of myself and have a richer, fuller life. So here is my shameless plug: find an amazing therapist you connect and feel safe with, open up, be honest, expect it to get worse before it gets better, and get ready for life to be flipped upside down in all the best ways.
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GOD IS ALWAYS FAITHFUL. As a Christian, I have always strived to put my relationship with God at the forefront of my life. Looking back through answered and unanswered prayers over the past six years, God always had my best interest at heart whether I saw it or not. God has always been faithful whether I see it in the moment or don’t understand it until six plus years later. Because of this fact alone, I know whatever life brings, I will be OK and often more than OK.
I still don’t know what spurred my 24-yearold self to move 2,000 miles away to start a new chapter in my life. But I do know that I will forever be grateful that I did. It continues to be one of the best adventures of my life. And I would do it over and over again. So do it. Say yes to something that scares but excites you to your core. Gather up all the courage you can muster and jump in. You never know what amazing adventures might lie ahead. &
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y mother and I sat on the patio of our favorite little bistro in Little Rock, on a warm late spring evening, having a cocktail. As usual, I was sharing some big story, and she was listening and smiling. I had just met someone who seemed to be the perfect soulmate for me. I was explaining to my mom how he was headed to Boston to graduate school. With all the emotion of Anne of Green Gables, I exclaimed how devastating this was! I had finally found my one and he was leaving. She looked at me and said, “You should go with him.” I protested that I had only known him a short time, and Boston was so very far away. And she said, “You are 27 years old. You dropped out of college. You work part-time at a bank. Go. Live. You can always come home.” And so I did. And it was lovely. Until it wasn’t enough.
my Emma and we moved across the country to Kansas. Since this is post-Gmail, sometimes the emails I was writing to friends during this time show up again, and I am reminded of how TRULY deeply I believed that this move would be the best thing ever. But instead, a day came when I just knew there was more and better for me out there.
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I visited my mom and Emma in St. Augustine, Florida and it was AMAZING – a true paradise. I began making plans to move there. St. Augustine was my new true love. And for the first couple of years that I lived in St. Augustine, almost nothing mattered except the fact that we lived in paradise. Emma continued to grow and be stunningly beautiful inside and out. My mom and I sat on many more patios drinking cocktails and laughing. Finally, this leap had been the one that had brought me to my heaven. Until that changed – and I felt something missing in my life again.
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Only months after we broke up, I found out I was pregnant with my daughter, Emma. As soon as I found out, I instantly knew that being a mom would bring me complete fulfillment! Every day I was pregnant with her, I dreamed of what our life would be like and how everything would look. Indeed, Emma has been both the greatest love and leap of my life, but once again, there was a moment where I realized I wanted something more and different. I was sitting in a graduate class when the teacher said, “Many of you are here because you want to change the world. And you believe that you will do that by working for a non-profit or government agency. I’d like to pose the idea that it’s okay to make money and change the world by deciding who to give it to.” I decided to go to law school. The day that thick white envelope came in the mail (on my 31st birthday), my heart leapt in ways I had almost forgotten. The first day of class was like a first date. As I rode the bus to campus, I noticed how the birds were even singing just a little bit louder and my skin looked brighter and healthier. I congratulated myself for the huge leap of faith it took for me to give up my job and count on my family for help with Emma and attend one of the top 30 law schools in the country. But, as time went on, the longing for something new came up again, and I started rethinking my plan.
Having recently dealt with the loss of three miscarriages and a marriage that was crumbling, I began falling in love with the idea of being best friends/world-changers with my sister. We spent hours on the phone planning, dreaming, and scheming. I told anyone who would listen how we were going to run an amazing business together and everything I had ever dreamed of was waiting for me in Connecticut. This was actually true for about three whole months. How could it be that once again mustering the courage for a huge leap of faith had left me feeling empty? A short time later, I sat with an herbalist and healer one day and she told me that I was like a butterfly. She explained that the caterpillar doesn’t squirm when it is in chrysalis – it has no idea what is really coming next – but it still knows that it will be amazing. She then talked about how it does become the most amazing thing ever, a butterfly, but it still needs to eat and be nourished and find its home. And then she explained that the beautiful and amazing butterfly never asks any one flower to be its everything, but simply enjoys the beauty and deliciousness of the flower as long as it feels good and then moves on to the next beautiful and delicious thing. “You, my sister,” she said, “should realize that the courage to leap and believe the next thing will be beautiful and delicious is what matters. And it always is – even if only for a short time. And when it is no longer delicious, enjoy the fact that you are able to so easily start planning for the next delicious adventure.”
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Thanks to the relatively new world of Facebook, I reconnected with my first love; my high school love; my 80’s-movie-smart-girl-loves-bad-boy love. Can you imagine what he told me the first time we talked on the phone? That he still loved me even after all these years! That he had kept his promise at age 16 to love me forever! And so the planning and dreaming and scheming began. The plans for the next big leap started to take shape. This time I absolutely knew in my heart of hearts that if someone had loved me for that long, they were the thing that would satisfy my needs. I packed up
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And so I began planning again. And just about one year from that conversation, we moved back to paradise and I sat on a patio with my mom drinking a cocktail and telling her about the next big adventure I wanted to have and how it was going to be the most perfect thing ever. &
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Reinvention After Divorce WORDS & IMAGES BY LECY CROSON
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’ve often found myself wondering why you don’t get new identity papers when you get a divorce. Looking back now, I know that if I had received some, I would have missed out on an amazing opportunity to grow and become the woman I am today. I was married young by today’s standards. I met my husband online in early 2001 and after conversing electronically for nearly six months, we had our first date. From that moment on, I would spend no more than a handful of nights without him. We became inseparable, wanting to do everything together. The things we had as individuals – friends, the places we frequented, even our possessions – became “ours.” We went to “our” restaurant for dinner. We saw “our” friends on the weekend. Long before we ever said “I do,” we had signed up for joint ownership on pretty much everything in our lives. It happens in most marriages, I suspect. In those early honeymoon years, you spend all your time meshing two lives into one. You even see it in Hollywood, when a celebrity couple is no longer known by their individual names and instead by their couple name, like “Brangelina.” For the next fourteen years, I was not an individual anymore. I’d become half of a pair. The process felt right at first. It felt like this was how it was supposed to be done. “Half of a pair” sounds like a nice idea, something you might see on a cute wedding card. While the first few years of the relationship felt like I was becoming something greater than one, I was quickly giving up my individuality. Without realizing it at the time, I was letting go of the hobbies I enjoyed when I was single. I pulled all of my friends and family into the “joint” circle I had created with my husband and left no one for me to call my own. I told myself that if I didn’t spend every moment with him, I wasn’t a good wife and by doing that, I presented myself as part of a package deal which further undermined my identity as an individual. I began to feel like I wasn’t whole, alone. ›››
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My marriage fell apart nearly a decade later. All of the friends and family I now shared with my husband began to choose sides and many of them chose his, severing their relationships with me. I had to give up half of my belongings, my family, and my home. These were painful enough, but what hurt the most was the fact that I no longer knew who I was without my husband by my side. Divorce is often seen as the failure of two people rather than the failure of a relationship and I definitely felt like a failure. I struggled to look in the mirror without feeling like I had let everyone down, myself included. I was living in fear of being alone.
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I didn’t like who I had become, so I decided to take advantage of my situation and work on getting back to the person I was before I lost myself. The divorce was hard, but that period of time right after everything was finalized was more difficult than I had expected. Much like the process of metamorphosis when a caterpillar spins herself into a cocoon and reemerges as a beautiful butterfly, I knew I also had to reinvent myself. This was my opportunity to create a new me.
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I spent the next few months defining who I was, picking the qualities I liked best about myself before I got married and used those as building blocks to form a foundation for me to start from. I wrote in a journal and read a lot of books and created art and talked with friends and family who had been through a divorce and could offer support. I spent a lot of time getting to know myself again and learning to love the woman I was without a partner by my side to define my worth. It took a whole lot of quiet nights with my thoughts and self-care, and some days were downright uncomfortable, but I continued to push forward. It was a difficult time, but I slowly found the courage to weave myself a cocoon and begin the process of my metamorphosis.
Since my divorce, I’ve almost come full circle. I still consider myself a work-in-progress, but I’m much happier in my current frame of mind. I have claimed my individuality and I am confident in my worth as a single woman. I would never have been able to make the journey if I didn’t find that one courageous bone in my body and use it to push me forward when I felt like giving up.
COURAGE DOESN’T MEAN YOU AREN’T AFRAID OF DIFFICULT SITUATIONS. IT MEANS YOU HAVE THE ABILITY TO PICK UP AND MOVE FORWARD IN SPITE OF THAT FEAR.
Courage doesn’t mean you aren’t afraid of difficult situations. It means you have the ability to pick up and move forward in spite of that fear. While the idea of moving on alone after emerging from a broken marriage was frightening, I knew I couldn’t let the disappointment of failure ruin me.
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Looking to the future, I would love to marry again but I know there are some things I would do differently this time around. I would hold fast to my identity and celebrate it. Of course, I would enjoy time spent with my partner, but I would also savor the time I set aside just for me. I would remember that it is okay if I have friends and hobbies and places that I keep for myself and I don’t have to share everything with my husband. I would remember that blending our lives together doesn’t have to mean giving up my own identity. Divorce is a difficult process to go through and I hope you never have to, but if you do, my hope is that you are able to find the courage to spin a cocoon and reinvent yourself. &
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venturing outside my
comfort zone WORDS BY BETHANY MORRIS // IMAGES BY LINDYN WILLIAMS
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ave you ever gone through a time where you simply didn’t feel like yourself ? Perhaps you look back in hindsight at a particular season of life and realize, “Ohh, that was a time of personal inner change, a transition, a growing up... a ‘becoming time'.”
depressed...Those long periods when something inside ourselves seems to be waiting, holding its breath, unsure about what the next step should be, eventually become the periods we wait for, for it is in those periods that we realize that we are being prepared for the next phase of our life and that, in all probability, a new level of the personality is about to be revealed.”
back to who you once were simply because people prefer the ‘old you’. Often, it takes a trip outside of your comfort zone for a real revolution to be sparked in your soul. There are layers to each of us that are being unpacked over time. There is nothing shameful about choosing to put yourself first in order to discover and grow into these qualities.
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That’s something I’ve felt all too well. This ‘becoming’ left me feeling as though I were a stranger in my own body. At the time, I had no idea I was growing into a new version of myself. What I did know though was that I no longer felt like the person I used to be. As a result, a deep fear that I’d never be “Bethany” again started brewing within. Questions and thoughts like, “Will I ever be me again?”, “Who am I?”, “Who did I used to be?”, "I can’t even remember who I am anymore” and “Will this feeling ever end?” began to overwhelm my emotional and mental state. Yet the tiniest sparkle of hope could be found within - surely I had to be on the cusp of life-defining change. Maybe that’s a feeling you can relate to as well.
Desperate for change, I decided there was only one thing to do - go on a month-long road trip across the state border. The sole purpose: to ‘find myself ’ again. At the time I thought that it was a courageous decision. Those weeks away healed and restored my heart, desires, dreams, and qualities I thought were dead and buried. Most of all, it put a line in the sand and started a fresh chapter in my story.
When it came time to return home though, I quickly realized the courageous act wasn’t going on the road trip. No, no, no. The real courage would be allowing this new version of myself to readjust back into life. My heart had changed, yet it felt as though the life and people I had left behind for a month hadn’t.
The beautiful thing I’ve come to discover about courage is that it’s an opportunity to grow. To thrive in your own way takes courage. Above all, it is a choice.
Every opportunity to grow and be courageous is a choice we have to make. Rejecting comfort and choosing to rediscover who you were before the world told you who you should be is possibly one of the bravest adventures you will go on. If this means you need to take up daily journaling or maybe an interstate road trip to find her, please, find her. Watch as the cloud of confusion fades and your senses awaken to all that this world has to offer you and what you have to offer it.
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Alice Walker so beautifully articulates this ‘becoming’ season:
“Some periods of our growth are so confusing that we don’t even recognize that growth is happening. We may feel hostile or angry or weepy and hysterical, or we may feel
It’s one thing to find who you are and an entirely different journey to allow yourself to bloom where you once felt confused and lost. It takes courage to rediscover yourself, but it also takes courage to remain true and not revert
So the next time you find yourself feeling like a stranger in your body, take heart: you’re being prepared for new life and breakthrough. And when you finally find yourself, embrace her with all you’ve got. &
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TO THRIVE IN YOUR OWN WAY TAKES COURAGE.
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The Truth About
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y best friends and I tell each other just about everything. I frequently pick up the phone and call whenever I feel like it, to talk about my day or rant about something, even for just a few minutes. These two women are people that I’ve slowly built incredible relationships with, and communication is at the forefront. Over the past ten years, we’ve talked about mental health, future plans, and how we felt about significant others. Truthfully, it spoiled me a little bit and I never realized. I expected to find friends like that in college, friends that I could say everything to, but instead, I found myself holding my tongue. I just didn’t realize how much I held myself back until one of my good friends asked to live on my couch for a semester. It was July, she hadn't found an apartment for September yet, and she said she'd keep all her stuff in her suitcases and pay us a bit of rent. The kicker was that she said she’d gotten approval from my roommates (she hadn’t really). She pitched it as incredibly fun, all of us living together for our last year of college. "Doesn't that sound fun? I don't want to live with strangers, let's all be together for senior year!" It didn't sound fun to me. It sounded like I would no longer have a living room, it sounded like I would be going against my lease, and it sounded like my friend expected me to fix her problem. I was upset that her first option was to try and live on my couch and pin this on me. Eventually, my roommates and I agreed that it just couldn’t happen. She responded by saying that she understood, she just didn't know if she'd be able to find a place this late that was within her budget. When I heard this, I felt manipulated – like she was trying to make me feel guilty for something that wasn’t my fault at all. This situation was unavoidable. Nothing I could have done would have stopped her from asking. But I should have explained to her why it wouldn't work. At the time, I said, “It's okay with me so long as my mother agrees," while knowing my mother, my cosigner, wouldn't agree at all and knowing that I wouldn’t want her to. ››› 65
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I should have done the courageous thing. I should have said, “I'm not really comfortable with you living on my couch for that long.” I should have said, "I feel like I’m expected to fix this and I can’t." I believe our friendship was strong enough that we would have gotten through it. Probably our friendship would have been even stronger for pushing through. Instead, I just tried to avoid a fight.
Every single time I disagree, I think, “This is it. This is the time they turn to me and just end our friendship because I’m being too difficult.” Of course, that never happens, and I’m always relieved and frankly, a little embarrassed afterward because I shouldn’t be so scared of this. These are my friends. If I talked about the little and big things with them, our friendship would only grow stronger.
This was the incident that made me realize just how much I was keeping in just because I didn’t want to be a bad friend or start a real fight. Not only with this one girl but with almost all my friends, over and over.
I doubt my friends even recognize what I’m doing as “standing up for myself.” They probably haven’t realized that they themselves are hiding just a little bit – just enough – too. I can only hope that my baby steps will get bigger, and they too will do the same. Or maybe we’ll reach the point where I’m brave enough to talk candidly about the fact that I sometimes hold back because I’m afraid of a real argument, and my friends can admit the same, and we can grow together.
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I didn’t want to be the difficult friend. I didn’t want to become the friend people hate to invite over because she’s kind of a drag. Facing down friendlessness was so incredibly scary that I was hiding a part of myself under the guise of being a good person. I told myself that not saying these things was a compromise, but honestly? It rarely helps the friendship at all to stay silent about the big things, like how I felt when my friend wanted to stay on my couch. The resentment I felt about that could have been worked through, but I stayed mad for longer than I thought I would, which hurt the friendship far more than being honest (being tactful, of course, but still honest) would. It’s not much of a friendship when half the time you’re just stressed, thinking about things that annoy you or upset you but you keep trapped inside anyway.
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It’s scary to speak up when you think you’re being mean, but chances are, you aren’t. Your feelings are important. It’s scary to think about losing your friends. But, at the risk of sounding cheesy, friendship is one of life’s greatest gifts. We shouldn’t have to spend that time with our friends holding back. &
WORDS BY ANONYMOUS // IMAGES BY DIJANA SZEWCZYK
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dear teenage me WORDS BY REBECCA RICE // HEADER IMAGE BY DƯƠNG TRẦN QUỐC
Dear 14, This year is going to be the hardest year yet. You don't know the phrase yet, but it's going to be full of cognitive dissonance, when something goes against your normal set of beliefs and thoughts. People you always thought would be there for you are going to turn their back, and it's OK. You'll make it through. There will be others that stay with you. You'll grasp onto them like a life vest in a tumultuous sea. Your heart and mind will feel like they are being ripped apart. The people that stay will develop stronger meaning, they will be the remnant of your childhood and innocent happiness. There will be tears - yes, a lot of them. And however many times you fall asleep crying out to God to change things, know that He will, but maybe not as you're envisioning. And that's OK, too. Change is good, it propels you forward. It's painful at times (now especially), and it may alter your life's direction. Afterwards, you'll see the benefit. The important thing is to lean into Him. This year will also be your first year of high school! You'll do well there. It's going to show you what your real passions and dreams are. They may surprise you. Embrace the learning experience. School is something you can excel in, but also remember that making time for family and friends will help your stress level and overall happiness. One last thing: guys are fun, but don't let them take up too much of your time. At this age, mixed signals are inevitable and everyone is learning how guy-girl interactions work. They're still fun to be with and talk to, but if you're getting mixed signals please don't let it work you up too much, there's lots of time. ›››
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Dear 16, "You are 16 going on 17..." sorry, couldn't resist, but actually you know you loved that reference. You're 16 now, you've hit the middle of your teen years. You've learned a lot and have a better handle on what this teen thing is about. Life is still changing, but it's less scary and more fun now. My advice for you this year is to enjoy it! Allow yourself to be your age, you don’t always have to be the serious responsible one. In certain settings it is completely appropriate for you to allow someone else to be the adult and for you to be the teenager; this is the only time you will be able to enjoy this kind of freedom. It's great to be responsible and have your head on your shoulders, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get to have fun. Do the silly thing that you think up with your friends, soak in the stars, dance in the rain, giggle about boys. Allow yourself some freedom.
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Dig deeper into your relationships, family friends, mentors. And dig deeper into God. Learn and understand where your value comes from, not just in theory but in actuality. It is easy to say, "My value comes from God," but it is another thing to believe it with your words and actions. Start learning how to best take care of yourself. Self-care is not selfish. If you are consciously taking care of your needs, then you'll be enabling yourself to best love others. Take this time to learn what you like - in clothing, food, friends, and guys. Parts make up wholes and no whole being will ever be perfect this side of heaven. However, now you can take the time to focus on and analyze what it actually is that you like about a person and give yourself a leg up for the future. No person will be perfect, but if you start figuring out what kind of qualities and characteristics you like now when it comes to looking at men as potential boyfriends and a husband, later you will be able to tell if you are only attracted to him physically or if there is more to it. Attraction is a funny thing, don’t feel bad if most of the attraction is cognitive or if it is all physical. There is nothing wrong with either of those situations. Lastly, you deserve someone who you doesn't make you fight for his attention. If you have to work too hard for him to acknowledge or talk to you, it’s not worth your time. You are bright and beautiful. Don’t hide, let your exuberance shine.
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Dear 17,
Don’t hold tight to grudges. I know how it feels when someone you trusted, someone you asked something of, doesn't come through. Or they kept secrets from you out of fear, shame, embarrassment. And that makes you feel even worse because you feel like if you weren’t you then none of this would have happened. But that’s not true, people make their own decisions. However, you’re still hurt, and you feel justified in your hurt, anger, and frustration. But don’t hold onto it. Get it out, bring it up to the offending party. Your pain can be justified, but that doesn’t mean you have to carry it around for years. Doing so will only tire you out and keep you from growing. Heroes are born when people see a need and rise up to the occasion. You are learning about the act of heroic love. Love that is not romantic or familial, but pure authentic human to human love. Love simply because someone is willing to lay down their desires for the other. Because seeing a smile, a laugh, or confirming just a fraction more how much you are worth is all they are after. When you find people that you can share that kind of love with, let it refine you. Let it reveal desires that you have never even allowed yourself to acknowledge. Let iron sharpen iron, love blossom love, and worth reveal worth. Learning to love sacrificially will change you for the better.
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This year is exciting. Among other things, you’re going to graduate high school and decide about college. You’ll be faced with decisions that feel too grown up for you. Don’t be nervous, you’ve been working up to this for years, you can do these things. This year an important lesson you’ll learn is that there is no shame in being attracted to more than one guy at once. That doesn’t make you slutty. It is only showing you that different guys have different things to offer, and the things you find attractive may not be found all in the same guy every time. It’s OK to like how funny one guy is and how joyful you are around him, to be attracted by how one guy searches after the Lord, and how another is driven in his pursuit of education and career. Simply because you cannot nail down one guy to have a crush on does not make your attraction or feelings less valuable or make you a lesser person. The important thing for you to take away from these attractions and feelings is an understanding of what you desire. Being aware of what you want in your future husband will protect your heart. & 69
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My Definition Of
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t had been a fairly long day and I was ready to get home after working late. We had recently moved from a small two-bedroom duplex to a different section of base housing. This neighborhood had larger homes with carpet and the primarily higher-ranking military members lived there. I did not fit the criteria but was fortunate to reside amongst them. The definition of luxury sure does change over the years. I left the hospital where I worked on the seventh floor in the dental clinic. The sun was setting and the calm, warm air had a mild touch of humidity. After a 10 minute quiet ride, I pulled into the driveway. Where is my husband’s car? They’re not home. I opened the car door and it dawned on me... it’s almost dark. My instinct, or fear, pulled me back to my seat and hurriedly I shut the door and clicked down on the lock. I’ll wait for them to come home. That’s it! I’ll just wait. I’m safe here. The sight of couples walking their dogs and the lights inside the neighbors’ houses almost convinced me that everything was okay and life was good. Except it didn’t. Nothing was okay. I grasped the steering wheel with both hands and realized what I was doing. I sobbed. I wholeheartedly fell apart. A few weeks prior to this life-shifting night, my mother was brutally murdered. Law enforcement called him a serial killer; common people called him a monster; I called him the man who killed my mom. She was a single mom, and a good one. She devoted her life to my little sister who was 14 years younger than me and found no interest in meeting her own needs. Because my sister went on a weekend fishing trip with friends, other ladies urged her to get out and have some fun. She innocently heeded the advice and went to a nearby place…. alone. That night, she’d take her last breath.
WORDS BY MINDY RENEE JAFFAR // IMAGES BY JENN SUTTON
He wined, dined, danced, and drank with my sweet mom. I’m certain he was charming and seemed harmless because she was wise and discerning due to her hard life experiences. The façade eventually fell and my mom caught on, but it was too late. Two days later, she was found under her bed, breathless and lifeless. The details are numbing. The truth is surreal. I spent over two weeks in Washington and filled every second with detailed responsibilities and intermittent spurts of breakdowns. For 3 days, I couldn’t seem to breathe or utter a word without crying. But, when coming off the plane and seeing my sad, lost sister, I subconsciously pulled myself together to handle my mom’s affairs. I was 27 years old. I had no idea how to plan a funeral nor did I have the finances. Miraculously, I was able to give my mom a beautiful burial, pack her home, and get custody of my darling little 11-year-old sister. It’s amazing how fear and sadness sit in the backseat when things must get done. However, when the dust settled and my breath returned, that fear crept back in, this time attempting to take the helm.
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Merriam-Webster defines courage as this: mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty. Joy can be stolen by the thief of fear and so often people wonder why they aren’t happy. Although there can be many factors related to the lack of joy and peace, I find that fear is a common root of sadness and this particular night I had to confront it. It was 2001 (cell phones weren’t common) so unlike today where I would just call or text my family and ask where they are, I had to wait.
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The night grew dark and quiet. I began talking to myself: How long will you wait out here? What are you doing and what are you afraid of ? Other instances came to mind where fear had taken over. When cleaning the bathroom, I would shut and lock the bathroom door so my back wasn’t turned toward it. I started leaving the bedroom light on and leaping to the bed, careful to not step too close to the edge and now this. Sitting in my driveway, refusing to step one foot inside my home. MY home!
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This isn’t me, I cried out loud. I was new to praying and it still felt a bit awkward, but in this moment, I was willing to give it a shot. “Dear God, remove this fear from my mind and body. I will not live this way. I am not afraid of anything. These feelings are not true and I am okay. I will be okay and fear has no control over me.” I may have repeated this a few times, convincing myself it was true. Eventually, I believed in my new mantra. As I recall, my fear left almost instantaneously or it could have been that my family came home around that time. I remember crying endlessly that night wondering how I could be here, in this place. I was in disbelief that the stuff I read in books or saw in movies had materialized in my life. There was so much uncertainty, but one thing I was certain of was not living this way. The most important step I took first was deciphering between imagination and reality as well as thinking deeply about what I could change - and letting go of what I couldn’t. I started enjoying quiet, alone time rather than fearing it. I stopped creating imaginative scenarios and lived in the moment. Fear doesn’t control my thoughts or actions anymore and I don’t allow it take up residence in the corners of my mind. A lot has changed since those sad, difficult days over 16 years ago. My faith is deeper and my spiritual life is alive and well. I love yoga and have learned how powerful intentional breathing is. I choose books, exercise, and friends based on what is truly good for me. I rely on God, but I’ve also learned, especially most recently, how much power He has placed in me. We have so much authority and it comes alive via our choices. I decided not to be afraid. I had to learn this, and learning is parallel to practice. Desperation may have led to this mental shift, but it was the outcome that proved to me I could do it time after time. I created my own definition of courage that night.
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Courage is the ability to think thoughts contrary to my current feelings and act according to the present state of truth. “There are moments which mark your life. Moments when you realize nothing will ever be the same and time is divided into two parts, before this, and after this.” -John Hobbes (Fallen 1998) &
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even hundred dollars, two panic attacks, and one nasty bout of fake flu later, I found myself staring into the midnight black abyss of Puget Sound from above. Exactly a week earlier, I had received a cheerful email from a prominent food and beverage company in Seattle inviting me to participate in an interview loop. Oh, and they wouldn’t be covering the flights…that’s not a problem right? No? Great. Sucking up my pride, and silencing my lily-livered financial sensibilities, I succumbed to a series of refrigerator magnet wisdom to get through the week. “You miss every opportunity you never take.” “YOLO”. “What would Warren Buffett do?” My friends and family were sworn to a code of silence if I didn’t get the gig. Thou shalt never speak of this purchase again. Really, though. Don’t ever bring up those f@&king plane tickets again. Okay, sufficiently confused and/or uninterested in the mundane purchases of a total stranger? Let’s back up. With the exception of four blissfully stoned studious years in the Pacific Northwest, I’ve been rooted firmly in Chicago. I’m a writer and fight starving artist syndrome by peddling my wares in the advertising world (one of the few art mediums people actually pay to avoid!). The reality is living in a place where you can find both a quality burrito and a running train line at 3 in the morning is pretty glorious. 74
So, why was I frittering away my meager savings on flights to Seattle if life in Chicago was coming up roses? The reality was, no matter how easy life was in Chicago, it never felt like me. This flatlander craved big mountains, salty oceans, and that syrupy, sweet puddle of a meal known as Seattlestyle teriyaki. After five years of pretending that Starved Rock was a legitimate hiking location, I finally bucked up the courage to move across the country. However, it’s never really that simple, is it? In Chicago, I held a coveted creative position that was equally prestigious and torturous. While the angel on my shoulder staunchly agreed that I should move to my dream city first and figure out my career second, the ambitious gremlin within my gut kept me frozen with fear of sure failure. Maybe other people could pick up and move, but I wasn't one of them. If some folks are like rolling stones, let's just say I'm more like Stonehenge. Toeing the line between pragmatic and pure cowardice, I opened the door to my season of rejection. ›››
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rejection CLICK HERE TO GET THE FULL ISSUE WORDS BY SAMI ROSS // IMAGE BY MICHAEL DISCENZA
With one foot firmly planted in the safe bosom of Chicago, I stretched my soul to Seattle. Seeing as I'm someone who'd rather watch Lorelei and Rory Gilmore converse amongst themselves than speak to actual humans, this phase was, shall we say, tricky. I networked. And I networked some more. I took phone dates where I had to speak to real live people on the other end of the line! I emailed and texted and Linkedin (that's a verb now, right?). And for a minute it kind of worked. Faster than I could have expected, I started taking interviews. And they liked me, they really liked me! My previous work was appreciated, my energy translated well, and I genuinely wanted to get drinks with at least 75% of the people I spoke to - success! Everyone who interviewed me seemed convinced that I was going to take the Seattle creative scene by storm...however, they just wouldn't be there to see me make it rain. With every positive interview, I felt more disenchanted. I started to think that the friendly Seattle culture I loved so much was really a double-edged sword. Maybe I was a horrible copywriter and Seattleites were taking pity on me.
Chicago drunk on optimism. I had a total work crush on the company I interviewed with, and I thought they felt the same way! It turns out they did...but... Have you ever received a call from a recruiter saying they have good news and bad news? After agreeing to hire me, the budget for my role disappeared overnight. Just like that, I earned and lost a job in one swoop.
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Let's return to where we began, on that fated red-eye flight to the great Northwest. After a whirlwind of cotton mouth, shaking hands, and coffee (duh), I returned to
I was used to having a clear roadmap with every step unfolding in a predictable manner. My own journey into adulthood was unblemished and conventional - I didn't really know what it meant to enter the unknown. It was an offhand comment from my mother that made me realize I had been waiting for permission to take control of my own life. Casually, she asked me, “What are you so afraid of ? This move won't kill you. If you can't find a job, whatever, you come back to Chicago or move somewhere else!� She was right. My fears had boxed me in and if I couldn't stand up to them, I'd never make a move. So, just like that, I rented a storage unit, paid homage to the bank account gods, and bought a one-way ticket to Seattle. I can't tell you how tomorrow will look or guarantee that this move was a success. But, for the first time in my life, I think I'm okay with that. & 75
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Putting Myself First WORDS BY MELISSA WERT // IMAGES BY MEGAN BRETON
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heard somewhere once that “when it hurts so much you can’t breathe, that’s how you survive”. I didn’t really understand what that meant when I first heard it, perhaps because every other time I thought I had felt the rock bottom of hurt, I had always squeaked out a breath. But not this time. The night I first felt in my bones that my marriage might be over, I couldn’t breathe. I can’t remember having ever cried that hard. These weren’t the pretty tears of heartbreak that you see in the movies, with the slightly heaving chest and the solitary tear running down a cheek. No, these tears were ugly. They were hardened. They took my breath away and they knocked me down and they drowned the life I thought I was guaranteed. The life I had worked so hard for. And yet somehow, I survived. When I came back up for air, I had survived. Throughout our marriage, my husband and I had countless discussions around the fact that divorce was not an option for us. That no matter what we faced, we were in this big, great thing called life together. We were like the Titanic of relationships; we spent so much time being sure of our unsinkable-ness that we somehow missed the icebergs that were looming under the surface of happiness we seemed to float upon. I wish I knew which iceberg sunk us, but in reality, I think so many things chipped away at us without us realizing – or, in truth, paying enough attention to – until one of us pulled the plug completely and let all of the water in. And in that very moment, when the leak had sprung, when the truth was sprung, I had a choice to make. Do I inflate my own life vest and row my little, shaky boat to the unknown shore? Or do I tread water, hoping to be able to last long enough for our ship to right itself ? ›››
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I struggled deeply with understanding my choices. What type of woman walks out of her marriage? What type of woman stays in a marriage where she’s not respected? What type of mother splits up her family? What type of mother raises her son in a home lacking love? Do I put myself first? My family? My son? My heart? My commitment? I had two choices to make – what to do, and who I was.
They weren’t easy choices, and I avoided making them until the pressure was so great that I literally felt like I was drowning. At first, I tried to stay. I stayed for my son. I stayed because I said my vows. I stayed because I was in denial. I wanted to stay. I wanted my marriage to work. I wanted to be the couple we thought we were – and the couple I know in my heart we once were. The couple that a piece of my heart hopes we’ll become again. I wanted to find a way to erase the hurt and ignorance we both had played our parts in. I wanted to erase all of the times we hadn’t put each other first and hadn’t listened to each other’s needs. I wanted to go back.
I’d like to tell you I walked out and never looked back. But I can’t. Life is messy. It’s hard living life in the in-between. We’re married, but we’re not together. We’re raising our child, but separately. I spend a lot of time worrying if I’m making the wrong decision. If I’ve already made the wrong decision. If I’m screwing up my kid and how he sees love. I worry if anyone will ever love me again. If I’m somehow unlovable and just didn’t know it. I worry if I am a fool for walking out. I worry if I am a fool for leaving the door to my heart open while we figure out what happens next. I worry if I’ve just walked away from the best thing to ever happen to me, or if I should be celebrating that I’ve survived the worst. And once I’ve worried myself sick, I remind myself of the most important thing: It isn’t worth sacrificing yourself out of fear, or shame, or denial. If you don’t put yourself first, then no one else will, either.
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But as the days went on, as I felt less loved, and less important, and less valuable, I wanted and needed to prove to myself that I was worth more than this - the water treading, the hoping, the denial, the self-blame, the selfdoubt. And the only way I knew how to do that was by inserting time and space into our relationship. And so, I left. I found the courage to put myself first and I left. 80
A lot of people leave their marriage out of heartbreak. Out of hurt. Out of anger and resentment and out of hatred. Their path is formed by the path the deep crack in their heart creates. And while I will never deny that I felt and often still feel all of those things at a level I never knew existed, my path was also formed by a deeply conscious decision to be brave enough to act on this sole notion: I matter. My heart matters. And I am worthy of love. And you are worthy, too. &
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Dear Soul Sister... I know it can be hard to feel like you are worthy. It sometimes feels like we are always “less than” something. Less than what? No one knows, except that little monster in our head that snarls, “You are less than.” Courage is one of those areas that I usually feel “less than” in. When I think of courage, I think of people like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. People like Nate Saint, a missionary to Ecuador who was killed trying to make peaceful contact with the Huaorani tribe. People like soldiers, who risk their lives every day protecting their country. But definitely not scaredy-cat, less than me. But we are not “less than.” I believe God has given us a unique spirit and has made us all champions in our baby steps. He has made us “more than,” but our head-monster likes to steal our courage to reinforce our “less than” image of ourselves. The less than has blinded us, because it’s scared of what we can do if we recognized our quiet bravery. If we could see, it would lose its power over us, and we would be confident, courageous, and ready to change the world. You are brave because you have loved. It takes courage to offer your heart to someone, without the guarantee that they’ll love you back. They could smash your heart, and yet, you still love. Everyone is capable of hurting you, but each day, in some way, you are courageous enough to keep on loving. It’s easy enough to let bitterness and hatred creep in, but it’s brave to keep on loving. You are more than when you love. You are more than when you fight against the less than when he tells you to give up. When you push through the failures, the taunting, the hatred—you are more than. It’s so easy to give up, to listen to the less than when it tells you, “You aren’t good/smart/accomplished enough.” When every rejection seems to reinforce that self-image, you are brave to keep going. To listen to the tiny voice that whispers, “No, you are more than, and you can.” You are fearless when you forgive. When someone wrongs you, cuts you to the core, it’s easier to hurt them back. When the Huaorani tribe killed Steve Saint’s father, it would have been much easier to hate them. But Mr. Saint went back and finished his father’s missionary work, even befriending the man who killed his father. Though we may not be forced with forgiving a murderer—though we could be—the very fact that we can put aside our own self and forgive even the smallest transgressions proves that we are brave. We are more than anything we tell ourselves, or anything the world tells us. We may not make the news for loving, persevering, or forgiving. But we will always be more than, we will always be courageous, simply because we did. Nothing can negate that, not even the less than voice inside our heads. It’s time to see the bravery inside all of us. & Love, Hannah Carter
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ISSUE 15: COURAGE I sincerely hope this issue inspired you, moved you, made you feel something new. Holl & Lane was strictly created to help us connect with one another in our shared experiences, and I hope you were able to connect with another person through these stories. So, what now? SHARE OUR MISSION - tell your friends and family about us. Let them know where to buy the issue. It helps us reach more women who might need us and our stories. Be sure to tag us - @hollandlanemag JOIN US DAILY - Our private Facebook community is filled with inspiring women from all across the world connecting with us and each other. It’s an incredibly beautiful place. Join us at facebook.com/groups/HLFamily PASS US ON - Know a friend, non-profit, library or other community who could REALLY use our stories? Pass this issue on to them so they can be inspired, too. REACH OUT TO US - We LOVE to hear from you. Don’t be shy in emailing Sarah, the Editor in Chief, directly at editor@hollandlanemag.com. We want to hear your feedback. REVIEW THE MAGAZINE - Leave us a review on our Facebook page, or write up your own blog post about it. We value very single comment. Thank you for being a part of our journey. Our souls are fueled by you.
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T H E HOLL & LA N E M AGA Z I N E M A N I F E STO At Holl & Lane, we know that your story is powerful. We invite you to step into the light and know that you are not alone. The tapestry of life can be heartbreaking, and it can be breathtaking. Your strength is woven through it all. We are a sanctuary for your soul, a refuge from judgment and misunderstanding. It’s OK to laugh, to cry, to rage, to struggle. It’s the bittersweet beauty of being alive. We believe in the power of stories and how they connect us all with shared experiences We believe in truth because it will truly set you free. When we own our truths, the iceberg of fear begins to melt away. We believe in community because you do not have to go through life alone. We care about you and what you have to say. Shout it out loud! We believe in empathy because “me, too!” is the shortest way to making a connection with another human being. We believe in inclusion and diversity because you are ALL welcome here. There’s no secret society or special password. Your sweet soul is the only RSVP you need. We believe in strength because it manifests itself in truth. When you share your story - the trials, the triumphs, the tears, the smiles - your strength shines through as you embrace vulnerability and shut the door on shame.
V I S I T U S AT H O L L A N D L A N E M AG .CO M
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