Holl & Lane, Issue 17 Preview (Transformation)

HOLL & LA N E A S A N C T UA RY F O R SO UL - F IL L ED STO R IES

20 1 8 CO L L ECTI O N Volume I I I , Issue 17

T HE T RA NSFORMAT IO N ISSU E The po wer of change and reinvention 1

Special Thanks To: Annie Arvizu Cover Photographer annielucie.com instagram.com/annielucie_ Halli Bunker Cover Model instagram.com/hallibunker Gracie Bunker Cover Model instagram.com/graciebunker

In Every Issue 04 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

90 Dear Soul Sister...

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In This Issue

14 Growing Out My Roots Self-transformation and hair dye don’t always mix.

42 I Survived Emotional Abuse The alienation of a mother from her children at the hands of her ex-husband.

68 Late Nights and Lost Bets Motherhood changes you whether you want it to or not.

16 A Mother’s Body No one tells you all the ways your body will change after becoming a mother.

44 Becoming Me Finding joy in life again after the loss of a child.

70 The Transformation of Postpartum Depression 1 in 5 women suffer from PPD and it’s OK to admit that motherhood is HARD.

18 My Battle Out of Darkness How a series of unfortunate events can change your life forever.

48 Be the Light Sometimes all you have to do is open your heart and listen.

76 Every Death Counts Death is more than your final breath in life.

20 Battle Maquillage Celebrating the strengths of womanhood through art.

50 Lighting Your Inner Fire Find that “thing” that lights you up and then keep doing it.

78 The Wilderness Within Finding solace and healing in the great outdoors.

28 Therapy Saved My Life Getting help during hard times can be life-changing.

54 The Magic of Improv Saying yes to a new experience can lead to a new passion.

80 Hearing Crickets How a cochlear implant amplified joy and discovery.

30 From Tomboy to Beauty Queen How high heels and elegant gowns boosted the confidence of a 56-year-old woman.

56 The Alchemy of Motherhood Redefining your sense of self after becoming a mother.

84 Laughter is the Best Medicine Humor and healing after a serious injury.

32 On the Other Side of Scrubs Letting go of a lifelong dream.

60 A New Life in Vienna Juggling self-identity and contradictions as a diplomat’s wife.

88 Almost Indian Finding happiness in a new country.

38 Redefining Love and Family Coming to terms with the impermanence of foster care.

62 What Happens When You Stop Drinking Getting sober wasn’t a magical solution, just the first step of many.

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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 chaoticcollectedinc.com

MADISEN QUICK Editor's Assistant instagram.com/madisen.quick assistant@hollandlanemag.com

CONTACT

For press and advertising inquiries, editor@gmail.com For contributions, stories@hollandlanemag.com For stockists, assistant@hollandlanemag.com

ABOUT We’re starting a movement towards more honest media, giving your voice and stories a platform to share your authentic 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.

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Contributors Adam Wilson Photographer What Happens When You Stop Drinking unsplash.com/@fourcolourblack

Chelsea Oliver Writer The List: Listen etsy.com/shop/ MarionClaireStation

Alex Pasarelu Photographer Late Nights, Lost Bets unsplash.com/@bellefoto

Christine Amoroso Writer Be the Light barenakedinpublic.com

Amanda Brown Writer Redefining Love and Family instagram.com/ amandanicholebrown

Denese Russell Writer Lighting Your Inner Fire deneserussell.com

Amie Lands Writer Becoming Me amielandsauthor.com Amy Cook Writer The List: Read instagram.com/amy1939 Andrew Brown Photographer Redefining Love and Family ragtagtribe.com/films Barbara Ann Bruno Writer I Survived Emotional Abuse BarbaraAnnBruno.com Bench Accounting Photographer Every Death Counts unsplash.com/@benchaccounting Betsy Grinder Writer Dear Soul Sister... giventothegrinders.com

Designecologist Photographer The Magic of Improv unsplash.com/@designecologist DeserĂŠe Lai Model Battle Maquillage instagram.com/deseree_lai Element5 Digital Photographer Growing Out My Roots unsplash.com/@element5digital Elisabeth Jackson Model Battle Maquillage instagram.com/elisabethjackson Erica M. Bauman Writer The Magic of Improv instagram.com/this_is_erica_b Erica Musyt Writer The List: Watch lookingtothestars.com

Contributors Erin East Writer A New Life in Vienna instagram.com/kinderculture

Lauren Santerre Writer Every Death Counts sacredspacesbylauren.com

Ferrah Chino Model Battle Maquillage instagram.com/ferrahchinoyoga

Lisa Boehm Hair, Makeup Battle Maquillage lisaboehmbeauty.com

Robin Kennedy Writer What Happens When You Stop Drinking instagram.com/robin.d.kennedy

Geran de Klerk Photographer The Wilderness Within unsplash.com/@geran

Lizzie Braicks Rinker Model Battle Maquillage instagram.com/donutsanddowndog

Rose-Marie Caldecott Photographer The Alchemy of Motherhood rose-mariecaldecott.co.uk

Hayes Potter Photographer Hearing Crickets unsplash.com/@hayespotter

Madeline Ranstrom Writer The Wilderness Within

Sami Ross Writer Growing Out My Roots instagram.com/beetliever

Jacek Dylag Photographer A New Life in Vienna unsplash.com/@dylu Jess Watters Photographer Lighting Your Inner Fire unsplash.com/@designedbyjess Karen Kirsch Writer, Photographer Battle Maquillage karenleannkirsch.com Katie Faulk Writer Late Nights, Lost Bets stressandstars.blogspot.com Keziah Kelsey Writer, Photographer The Transformation of Postpartum Depression babyrosephotography.com Kimberly Morand Writer On the Other Side of Scrubs

Maria Healey Writer Therapy Saved My Life Marianna Sharma Writer Almost Indian mrssharma.com Mark Estes Photographer Becoming Me nowilaymedowntosleep.org Mindy Jacobs Photographer Therapy Saved My Life unsplash.com/@mindyj Misty Christensen Writer A Mother’s Body mistycphotography.com

Nancy Mayo Writer My Battle Out of Darkness

Sophie Caldecott Writer The Alchemy of Motherhood sophiecaldecott.com Suzi Dent Writer From Tomboy to Beauty Queen suzident.com Tonja Bortle Writer Laughter is the Best Medicine instagram.com/lipstainedcoffeecup Watari Photographer I Survived Emotional Abuse unsplash.com/@watari

Nancy Cavillones Writer Hearing Crickets therealnani.com

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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. etsy.com/shop/MarionClaireStation 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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LIFE IS A MOVING, BREATHING THING. WE HAVE TO BE WILLING TO CONSTANTLY EVOLVE. PERFECTION IS CONSTANT TRANSFORMATION. NIA PEEPLES

IMAGE BY ANNIE SPRATT

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Editor’s Note Transformation is a word that I’m fond of. Whether it’s my hair, my style, the rug in the living room, or even an episode of Fixer Upper, I love a good transformation. But in this issue, we’re talking about change on a new level.

A change that begins to bubble up deep down within your soul until it explodes out of you, rocking the world you thought you knew.

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These transformations can start out seemingly benign but once they’ve erupted, they are the catalyst for a new season of your life.

The biggest transformation for me was becoming a mother - as it so often is.

The change in me has been so big that I don’t know if I’d recognize pre-mom Sarah anymore. But it didn’t happen overnight. It wasn’t as if on February 9, 2014 at 2:25 in the afternoon that I instantly became someone different.

The love I now have for my first born didn’t even sneak up on me until sometime in the week after he was born. But once it did, my body felt like it had been turned inside out.

And so, it is with these thoughts in mind that I set out to publish an issue on the very thing that we ALL endure - change, transformation, evolution.

Whatever word you choose, the sentiment is the same. Events happen in our lives that leave us irreparably different. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse, but that is life. And the way we choose to respond to those shifts is what makes us who we are.

Until next time, Sarah Hartley Editor in Chief

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transformation a thorough or dramatic change in form or appearance

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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 THE LITTLE BOOK OF HYGGE: DANISH SECRETS TO HAPPY LIVING

by Meik Wiking

WARRIOR GODDESS TRAINING: BECOME THE WOMAN YOU ARE MEANT TO BE

by HeatherAsh Amara

INSPIRATION IN MY SHOES

by Diana Patton with Amanda Filippelli

If you are on Pinterest, and perhaps even if you are not, you have probably heard of Hygge (pronounced Hooga). Hygge is about finding ways to incorporate tranquility and comfort into your home and lifestyle. Wiking explains how lighting, comfy clothes, togetherness, baked sweet goods (yes!), warm drinks, and even storms can transform your life and get to experience hyggestund (a moment of hygge). Since the Danes have been ranked as the happiest people on Earth, it can’t hurt to take a moment to see what helps them stay so delighted.

Women are busier than ever and they are still not getting the credit they deserve for being the amazing badass warriors they are! In this guidebook, Amara walks women through exercises that will change the way they think about themselves and learn how to empower other women in the process. Topics such as reclaiming your family story, discovering your gifts, and distinguishing the habits of your mind from true intuition are just some of the lessons learned throughout this transformational study. Want to dive deeper? There is a companion workbook to get maximum benefits.

This memoir/self-help book tells Diana’s very personal journey of growing up as a biracial girl and discovering all of the heartache life has to offer, including racism and sexual and mental abuse at the hands of her father. Instead of letting the negative consume her, she took a transformative spiritual journey to discover God’s plan for her life. By retelling her story, she encourages other women to uncover God’s purpose for their lives and how to use faith to get there.

AS GOOD AS IT GETS Melvin Udall is a writer of romantic fiction who also has obsessive compulsive disorder and is rude to everyone he comes into contact with.

After Melvin’s gay neighbor, Simon, is attacked in an armed robbery, he is asked to watch Simon’s dog.

Melvin also begins to realize he’s having romantic feelings of his own for a single mother who is the only waitress that will serve him at his favorite restaurant. With all of the sudden rush of emotions, Melvin’s personal boundaries are tested and he has to decide what is most important.

CRAZY HEART Bad Blake is a former country music legend whose personal choices have led him to play in dive bars and bowling alleys. Due in large part to his alcoholism, Blake’s life is quite dysfunctional. He meets Jean, a reporter who has come to do a story on him, and he unexpectedly begins to warm to her and a relationship begins. As Blake struggles down the road of redemption, he finds himself at a crossroads that could ruin his last chance at happiness.

BREAK FREE

by Ruby Rose

WHITE CEDAR

by The Mountain Goats

CHANGES

by David Bowie

RIVERS AND ROADS

by The Head and The Heart

WE WILL ALL BE CHANGED

by Seryn

THE TRANSFIGURATION

by Sufjan Stevens

BURNING GOLD

by Christina Perri

TUBTHUMPING

by Chumbawamba

MAN IN THE MIRROR

by Michael Jackson

NEW AMERICANA

by Halsey

WATCH THE DANISH GIRL An unusual love story inspired by the true story of artists Einear and Gerda Wegener. After posing for his wife’s portrait painting, Einear comes to discover that he may not be the man he thought. Gerda stands by her husband as he is about to embark on a journey that will change their lives forever.

LISTEN

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Growing Out My Roots WORDS BY SAMI ROSS | IMAGE BY ELEMENT5 DIGITAL

T

here comes a time in every child’s life when their family pushes them out of the nest- or rather, sends them into the salon by themselves. The salon chair may very well be the first throne we sit on. Once settled in, with a robe thrown over you, the power to determine your fate lies in your hands- and a stylist’s willing shears.

At age ten, my frazzled mother sent me into our local salon alone for a quick trim. One hour and four inches of knotty curls later, my quick trim had turned into a drastic transformation. Or rather, an ill-advised pageboy haircut.

My family was left aghast, but I was still innocent enough to be immune to vanity. The experience had made an impression on me. Change your hair, change your life.

Next came the quintessential zebra highlights of 2002, frizzy side ponytails, and I even gave the straightener a whirl before singeing my ears one too many times. It seemed like I couldn’t control my weight, my algebra grade, or my relationship status, but I could shuffle in a new “era” with a simple flip of my part.

I always enjoyed a good bout of experimentation, but it wasn’t until college when I realized that changing my appearance could affect a lot more than my wardrobe color scheme. Up until my sophomore year, I had only dabbled with a few pastel streaks here and there. However, after my first real, tortured breakup with Whatshisname The First, I knew I needed to put a stake in the ground. Though the details feel fuzzy to me now, at the time I felt prickly and detached from myself. Who was I before this whole love thing? Where was that girl now? I wouldn’t have expected to find the answers at the bottom of a highly suspicious bottle of bleach, but somehow, the three-hour dye session didn’t just turn my head magenta- it cleared it.

It was like I had found the restart button to, well, myself. My physical transformations weren’t meant to act as a disguise, but rather to signify a return to my personal square one.

In my early twenties, I fell into a pattern. Bad boyfriends were washed down the drain alongside lavender soapsuds.

Tough client at work? Slap some bubblegum pink on my yellowing strands and I’d rediscover that long-lost pep in my step. Some people pay for therapy, I preferred to demolish my demons with top shelf chemicals. As my vision grew, as well as my budget, I found that I had discovered a shinier, more vibrant version of myself- making it much easier to lick my wounds and move forward.

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There’s nothing wrong with feeling yourself, but when an inner transformation relies on an outer appearance… chances are, things may go awry. Since those early days of my controversial pageboy haircut, I had racked up more hairdos than don’ts. It’s pretty easy to like yourself when positive attention starts pouring in just when you needed it most. I thought that I was strong enough for a misstep- no risk, no reward! However, I never thought about how I’d feel if that misstep happened just as everything in my life started to fall apart, too.

I’ll give you the short version. Girl meets boy. Girl and boy fall in love. Boy throws her heart into a fiery dumpster. The story ends just as the pair makes a cross-country moveseparately. Two of the shortest, yet longest, years of my life ended with me living alone in a new city. It was a beautiful and exciting time, however, I felt like I was “playing” happy and was afraid I’d never return to who I was before.

Naturally, my instincts led to me to the hair salon where I chose my traditional pink, along with a not-so-traditional chop. Twenty years later, I was returning to my humble beginnings and asking for a pageboy cut, or as we say in 2018, a curly long-bob.

It wasn’t the stylist’s fault, but the result was less of a self-love high-five and more of an “Oh SH*T!” Instead of finding myself, I didn’t know what to think when I looked in the mirror. I couldn’t believe my friends when they said they liked the cut. I would bashfully, and even apologetically, warn Bumble dates that my hair might not be what they expected. I cared more than ever about what my ex thought. I wasn’t sure if I was temporarily broken or just a total stranger.

So, I stayed in and I wrote. I wrangled my hair back with about three-hundred bobby pins and joined a gym. I went to concerts. I read alone at coffee shops. I visited friends. I felt forlorn. Sometimes I had great dates. Sometimes I felt like I was never going to be desirable again. As I grew my roots out, I lay new ones down.

My hair is almost at my shoulders again and has returned to a familiar golden brown. I feel more settled in my bones than I ever have before. I still believe in the power of physical transformation, but when the season of struggle inevitably rolls in, for once, I’ll give myself a chance to hurt and heal before reaching for the hair dye. &

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A Mother’s Body WORDS & IMAGES BY MISTY CHRISTENSEN

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o one tells you when you have a new baby how tired you’ll be, or that sometimes all you do is try to survive those first few weeks. You read about “baby blues” but don’t believe it until you’re sobbing for no reason. No one tells you how lonely you’ll feel. No one tells you how your body still doesn’t feel like your own even after birth. It took almost a year for it to feel like mine again, but I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

I’m going to take you back to 2013. I was working full time in a dental office. I was a lead assistant, the ordering manager, trained new assistants when we hired them, and was pretty dang good at my job. I loved my job. I loved meeting new patients and finding out what their ultimate goal was and giving them their smiles back. One of the most rewarding parts of my job was having someone come in with many dental issues and once we were done with their work, you could see their confidence increase, and they actually smiled. It was a rewarding, enjoyable workplace.

I loved my job, but kept feeling like something was missing in our lives. My husband and I decided that after being only the two of us for three years, it was time to add another person to our family. We didn’t even know if we would be able to get pregnant because prior to our decision my husband had gone through chemo and radiation for Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Miraculously, after the first month of trying, we were pregnant. It almost seemed too good to be true, but we were excited, and nervous, and ready for this new adventure.

Around the time I was 16 weeks, I woke up one morning to a lot of blood. It was 5 AM, and I called my parents in tears, thinking the worst - miscarriage. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how much I really wanted that little

baby. I remember calling my doctor and him telling me there wasn’t anything they could do until the office opened and if it was a miscarriage, it was going to happen no matter what. We got into the clinic when they opened and to our huge relief, they found everything to be fine. I had a hemorrhage, but the baby was still healthy, and growing, and we were still on course.

Working and being pregnant was comical at times. Things that used to be SO easy, like rolling my chair around a patient’s head, turned into quite the ordeal! I would bump their head with my belly, get stuck, couldn’t bend down when I dropped things, and the swelling NEVER seemed to go away. My back would ache from being on my feet, then my feet would swell more, and I would get hot and sweaty. I was a sad sight. I didn’t remember what my feet looked like.

I had to use the restroom what felt like a thousand times a day. My body was expanding and this little human was doing jumping jacks at the most inopportune times. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a huge transformation in my life as I did when I was pregnant, but looking back, I can see how miraculous it was. I grew this perfect little human.

Not only was pregnancy a huge change for me, but the day my doctor decided to induce me was a whole other ball game. I remember going to work that day, knowing I had a doctor's appointment at lunchtime. I went in on my lunch break, and they told me, “Well, we’ll go ahead and induce you Tuesday!” After my appointment, I went in and told my dentist it was my last day and cried. I wasn’t ready to be done, but it was coming. My induction was rough. I labored through the night, and my baby girl was born at 11 a.m. and the rest is history.

It was the most extreme transformation I’ve had in my 30 years of life and I wouldn’t change it for the world. &

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my battle out of darkness WORDS & IMAGES BY NANCY MAYO

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n 2011, I experienced something I refer to as “a series of unfortunate events.” There is no neat or concise way to describe this time in my life, nor are there enough words to include all of the issues that arose.

Suffice it to say, from September 1st to December 11th I experienced a rapid succession of terrible events which led me to question every fiber of my being.

On September 1st, our anniversary, my boyfriend and I broke up. He had been cheating and I had been pretending not to notice. That same month I acquired 2 diagnoses: 11 compacted vertebrae (the result of a bodyboarding accident), and stage 1A1 cervical cancer. I was making $11 an hour so the burden of paying for medical care added to the already insurmountable feeling these health problems brought.

By October, I was physically and emotionally drained from my break up and health issues. I decided to skip town and stay with a friend for a few days. After a night of bar hopping, her husband drove us back to their house and we went to sleep. I abruptly awoke to my friend’s husband sexually assaulting me. I jumped up, frantically trying to orient myself, attempting to fix my disheveled and half missing clothes. As I was leaving, I saw him staring at me while fondling his unconscious wife; my unconscious friend.

I drove like a maniac as I fled from that house. Some friends met me on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, and ensured that I made it home safely. The next morning when I tried driving to the police station, I discovered that I had no brakes, there was dirt and grass embedded into the

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grill of my car and my hood was partially crumpled. I also somehow managed to snap off seven bolts from various tires. My car was nearly inoperable.

In the beginning of November, I received a call from the District Attorney who informed me there would be no charges filed against my rapist. His reasoning doesn’t deserve recognition, but the denial of justice left me in ruins. The recollection of my assailant staring at me as he fondled his unconscious wife, while simultaneously listening to the DA speak, made me physically ill.

On December 6th, my uncle Roger suddenly died. On December 7th, his brother, my uncle Tom, also died unexpectedly; both passed from unrelated medical issues.

My father died a few years prior, so the blow of losing both of my uncles decimated my family. While at Roger’s memorial on December 11th, I received a phone call that a close family friend had committed suicide. The vibration of shock I felt was palpable.

I was a messy conglomeration of broken, numb, and helpless.

I withdrew into myself and longed to slink away from the world. I was hurting, but everyone around me was hurting, too. My cousins had lost their fathers, aunts lost husbands, and my grandmother had officially outlived all of her children. My closest friends and family were grieving over the loss of a suicide. Not only was I shattered, I was surrounded by pain and suffering, and I didn’t know how to exist in life like that. ›››

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The next few months were murky. I don’t remember much other than I know I felt defeated. I had lost hope that I would ever feel ‘normal’ again. I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about suicide. Often.

In a serendipitous turn of events, still foggy from the hell of the past few months, I received an unsolicited request for an interview. The company was looking for a federal policy compliance manager. By all measures, I was unfit for the job, but I showed up to the interview armed with bronchitis and a strong sense of lingering apathy.

I haven’t a clue what they saw in me, but I started working for an international airline on March 9th, 2012. By May, I had flown on a private jet for the first time and in June I was in a business meeting at the Federal Building in Washington D.C. with the Chief Counsel for the Federal Aviation Administration. It was an absolute whirlwind.

The term “fake it till you make it,” had never been more apropos within the context of my life.

me, I could finally breathe. I deeply inhaled peace and forcefully exhaled chaos. What I had experienced over the last year, the lowest of lows to the highest of highs, swirled around in my being. As I exhaled, deepening levels of calm swept over me. I could feel the dark cloud that had followed me around for the past year dissipating with each breath.

This was the moment I finally knew things were going to be OK; that I was going to be OK. September 15th, 2012, 1 year and 15 days after my life began to unravel, I closed on my first home. A few months later I became the first person in my family to graduate college. I’ve since gone on to complete my Master's and with any luck, a Ph.D. will be next.

Prior to this series of events, I had a typical type A personality. I had to be in control. I financially strategized everything down to the penny and would be thrown into a near panic attack if things didn’t go according to plan. But I realized that for as much energy as I put into controlling my surroundings, life has its own agenda, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. I am simply along for the ride.

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August of 2012 was when I felt things change. It might seem odd that I didn’t feel it sooner, but I had been swept up in a tornado of intensity. I had been reeling from the horrors of 2011, and this new career path was such an unexpected whirlwind, I felt like I hadn’t had a chance to breathe and process how much I went through; how much my life changed. While on a business trip to Oscoda, MI, I decided to do some sightseeing. Nestled in the middle of the woods, I found myself at a place called Iargo Springs. I sat on a small footbridge overlooking a river with no one else in sight. I closed my eyes and meditated. I probably sat there for 20 minutes, but it felt immensely longer. In the quiet of the woods, with the sound of natural springs surrounding

The events of 2011 still reverberate throughout my life. I’m still discovering things about myself and often reflect on how differently I view the world. I am immeasurably proud of the woman I have grown to be. I drink in the moments life has given me, both good and bad. I am more open, more honest (sometimes brutally so), more free with my love and affection. I strive to live my life to the fullest without shame or restraint, to be authentically and unapologetically me.

And I think that’s a really great place to be. &

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Battle Maquillage WORDS & IMAGES BY KAREN KIRSCH | HAIR AND MAKEUP BY LISA BOEHM

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n this age of #MeToo, while our noses are smashed up against the cold glass ceiling, celebrating the style and strength within us has never been more exciting or important.

Tropes of women leaping from a soccer match to a ballet camp in a single bound will never even scratch the surface of how deep our heroism truly runs. Yes, we are organized. Yes, we are kind. Yes, we are emotional. Yes, we do speak a little too loudly and we will continue to do so. But that’s only the beginning.

Take your voice and use it, because it’s needed. Be confident and use what you’ve got because your presence is needed. We must keep celebrating the complexities our souls contribute to this world. We must keep exploring and pushing our findings out into the world. And by owning our individual stories we will fashion a new paradigm of leadership for everyone to see. We have already risen to the occasion. Just take a look and see the sister next to you. She’s rooting for you, fighting for you. Do the same. This is a battle of celebration.

We are the bells of freedom. Which one are you?

Because that glass is about to crack.

BRAVERY - She starts without truly knowing if she’s ready. Through all the noise and uncertainty, she acts anyway. Through tears, she holds her head and heart steady - and stays true to herself anyway. Fear is her friend. She boldly steps forward, listening to her gut and figuring the rest out later. She knows that fortune and joy reward those who are brave, and so she throws her head back in the face of unknown and begins to just be.

MODEL: LIZZIE BRAICKS RINKER 21

MODEL: DESERÉE LAI

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PERSEVERANCE - She’s knocked down and gets back up, knowing her fight is not just her own. She stands her ground on uneven footing, believing in her dreams and fighting for the others still behind her. Despite the pain and difficulty, she stays the course and remains focused. She creates her own light in an ever present darkness. Never casting her gaze away from success, she just keeps going.

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MODEL: FERRAH CHINO

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Therapy Saved My Life WORDS BY MARIA HEALEY | IMAGE BY MINDY JACOBS

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never liked who I was growing up. I lacked confidence. I had no sense of worth. I kept my interests and achievements quiet, so as not to draw attention to myself. And as a result, I simply existed amongst my peers.

my recovery by my team of supporters at the Women’s Center who assisted me in that dark time. I am fully aware that I would not have mentally survived that traumatic experience and aftermath if not for them and their guidance. It’s unsettling and incredible how such a horrific experience can completely change the course of a life. It’s not something I would choose to have happen to me again, but a small part of me knows that I am who I am today as a result of that significant event in my life and the growth and transformation that occurred afterward.

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For those reasons alone, I should have been meeting with a therapist at the time, however, it took much bigger life events to begin that process. Things like daddy issues, anxiety, depression, rape, and ultimately divorce. Things that could no longer be ignored or pushed aside, if I was to become the woman I thought I really had in me, the woman I’d always silently dreamed of transforming into.

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As a ten-year-old, struggling to understand why I even existed, there was no way of knowing I had the power to change my own life so drastically. I looked around at my meager beginnings and accepted, “This is it.” My mom brought all four of us kids to a family therapist after our parents’ divorce. It was supposed to be helpful. It was supposed to be healing. I felt weird about it and had a difficult time embracing the experience. We didn’t go back much after that.

But then something happened. I continued to age and my issues with insecurity and uncertainty continued to persist. I was a teenager by the time I accepted my mom’s suggestion to check back in with that family therapist of my past. He provided me with just the right tools to move on in my life and he helped change my perspective.

I felt powerful for the first time in my young life.

By the time I finished up college, I thought I was well on the way to becoming who I’d always set out to be.

I embraced change at every opportunity and even ended up moving across the country for the man that would later become my husband. I struggled in Florida.

I was surrounded by a lack of work ethic I had never experienced before in my life. I found myself at a total loss of enjoyment of life. It brought me great anxiety and mild depression. I wisely sought out my employer’s Employee Assistance Program (EAP) benefits and scheduled an appointment with a therapist to figure out what was going on with me. She gave me a prescription and continued to see me for 3 more visits. It changed my perspective. It helped me grow and focus on what I wanted out of life. It ultimately gave me the strength to leave the unfulfilling work behind and take on a new job I was more passionate about, even with less pay.

A year after my assault, I married my husband, because that had been the plan all along. Marriage was never easy for me but I worked like hell to make it look flawless, to enjoy the life we shared. It took my husband’s suggestion that we weren’t getting any younger to urge me to have a baby. I was scared of the uncertainty of becoming parents and the absolute selflessness that I knew was necessary.

We had a child and I embraced motherhood with every breath in my body. I made my son my life. I understood just how important my responsibility to him was. It was up to me to make him into a functioning member of society, a responsible adult, a smart man capable of making good decisions.

In those years of complete selflessness, I found the strength to make myself a priority. I found friends easily, not because they showed up on my doorstep eager to welcome me into their lives, but because I opened myself and my life up to them. I was authentic and fun and loving. I took chances and I tried new things. I continued to grow. I forced myself to focus on what was important to me and what made me happy. In doing so, I found that I didn’t want to remain in my marriage. Once again, I sought out therapy. I spent the better part of a year getting to know myself deeper than I ever had before. I accepted who I was and I even really liked that person. I wanted more of that.

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The third time I sought out assistance with my mental health was when I was raped. It’s difficult to fully remember that time in my life, but I think it was less of a self made choice and more of a necessary step for

I am thrilled to say that I am now the woman I dreamed of becoming as a timid, self-conscious child, when I thought it was unattainable. I’m not perfect. I’m not the most beautiful or talented. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve let moments in my life define me, but I’ve also chosen not to let the negative moments work in the same way. I am surrounded by amazing friends and family who love me to my core. I am extremely proud of the mother I’ve become and the son I’ve handcrafted. I’m a collector of life experiences as a result of my adventurous spirit and willingness to fail. It didn’t happen overnight, though, and it wasn’t an accident. This woman I’m so proud to be took a lifetime to create. It took a very carefully set out series of hurdles to get here. &

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FROM TOMBOY to Beauty Queen WORDS & IMAGES BY SUZI DENT

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ast year, at the young age of 55, I completely transformed myself from lifelong tomboy with a fear of frocks, to international beauty pageant queen in an effort to help save my husband and our 26-year marriage from his depression and raise awareness for a charity. I wore dresses for the first time, showed my cleavage for the first time, learnt to walk in high heels and took myself completely out of my comfort zone. I won Mrs. Earth Australia as the oldest competitor and then went to Las Vegas, competing against 36 pageant-experienced women from around the world, many of whom I could have given birth to! I won 3rd runner up, coming home with a crown and a title Mrs. Earth Health, proving that age is just a number!

moment. It was a beautiful light blue gown and when I tried it on, the material across the shoulders was sheer and you could see my skin and my cleavage and I burst into tears as I felt so exposed. The dressmaker was great, though, and sorted out the design so I felt comfortable enough to wear it. I got over my fear and grew more self-confident with each dress and gown I wore. In Vegas at the world finals, I wore a black, fitted, sleeveless number that showed my cleavage, another first, and I felt fabulous, confident, and beautiful.

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My husband has been battling with depression and anger management issues for the last five years and, to be quite honest, I wasn’t coping with our lives very well anymore. I desperately wanted to help him and get my best friend back for us and our son. There was an element of “sameness” and almost daily gut wrenching angry negativity in our lives that I needed to change, to save my family and our marriage! I did a lot of soul searching and started watching and listening to motivational things all about having a positive mindset and manifesting the life and dreams you desire.

I’m a big believer in paying attention to the signs life sends us, so when I was approached by the Mrs. Earth Australia pageant to compete, it was so far out of left field that after I stopped laughing and checked them out, I knew life was sending me a message. I was having a “sliding doors” moment! If life needed me to be a pageant queen to change our lives and raise awareness for the charity Soles4Souls, then that’s what I needed to do. So, I said YES!

Embracing the world of pageantry and being able to bring something new and positive into our lives with my work for Soles4Souls has changed the narrative of my marriage and saved our relationship, changing our family dynamic for the better. It has allowed me to kick some personal goals, overcome some personal fears, and grow as a person.

It provided me with a goal to work towards, a new world to be interested in and study, work experience opportunities, and amazing and inspirational people to meet. I can’t say that I am a tomboy anymore! Being a confident woman is something I have always been, however confidence and self-esteem are two different things. I now feel whole inside, like everything is all caught up with my soul and I am very grateful for this gift that life has given me.

My husband is very supportive of my journey and the positive self-esteem changes I have been going through and loves the new dress-wearing me. He has undergone a huge transformation as well and has a new positive mindset.

With the recent removal of the angry bastard, as he likes to call the man he was, I now have my happy, loving soulmate back.

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However, I am a tomboy. I have always been more comfortable in shorts or pants and baggy tops or t-shirts rather than a skirt or dress, and certainly not high-heeled shoes! Whenever I tried on a dress I felt exposed, insecure, and really uncomfortable. This feeling stayed with me for decades, as I didn’t have the self-esteem to wear a dress or anything fitted or sleeveless. So, wearing a glamorous gown was psychologically a really big deal for me.

I was very lucky to be sponsored by some wonderful businesses on my journey, including Bartercard, and had my first gown made for me. It was my first Cinderella

I am having such an exciting adventure! My journey has landed me coverage in print, radio, and broadcast outlets in Australia and around the world, including TV interviews on Sunrise and Today shows, Weekend Extra, and the news.

I even had a radio show do a live interview to speak with me in Vegas after my win!

The world of motivational speaking has opened up to me and I am here to inspire other women to say yes to the opportunities that come their way, to be fearless about making changes in their lives, to stop paying attention to their age number and realize that anything in life is possible - I’ve just proved it! Want to change your life path? Just say YES! & 31

on the other side of scrubs WORDS BY KIMBERLY MORAND

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he secretary kicked off her shoes and took a seat in the chair beside the ultrasound machine. She crossed her legs and readjusted her long, beautiful, flowing skirt, smoothing out the creases until it grazed the tops of her thick stockings.

“Pull your pants up! My goodness, Doctor!” she groaned.

I tilted my head downwards and peered through the swirls of IV tubes and wires from the cardiac monitor to see my pain specialist wrestling with his oversized surgical scrubs.

“I don’t think Ms. Kimberly wants to see your underwear. Is that my Valentine’s gift?” she giggled.

“Bah! You’re fired!” he joked, then patted my leg.

“I’m sorry about that. It’s these damn pants.”

My pain specialist and the secretary – his wife – are two of the most wonderful medical professionals that I’ve ever met. They run the remarkably small medical clinic which sits above an all-female gym.

Its phones lines and doors are only open after hours, but you are guaranteed to be seen, to be heard, to be validated, and to even crack a smile.

Yes, laughter. It is highly encouraged here.

I spend most of my time in the infusion chairs that face a span of windows. I can only ever see the tops of the few trees planted on the edge of the parking lot. I can just imagine how many sedated thoughts have gotten tangled in those very branches as the hundreds upon hundreds of patients who have come through these doors have stared out of them.

When can I eat? Why do they keep it so cold in here? These chairs are so uncomfortable. Why is the bathroom so far away? Why is my machine beeping? Yes, nurse, my arm is too small for the adult blood pressure cuff. Please don’t comment on my weight.

“Yes, I eat. My appetite is not the greatest when my pain is this high, though.”

“You’re too skinny, honey,” said one patient in a velour jumpsuit.

“Gosh, you’re young enough to be my grandkid.

You shouldn’t be here,” said a man in the corner. ›››

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DON’T EVER

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GIVE UP.

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Redefining Love

WORDS BY AMANDA BROWN | IMAGES BY ANDREW BROWN

And Family

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“H

ow many kids do you have?” A ubiquitous question, but one that warrants a different response based on the asker.

Doctors have made it black and white. Their form asks the same two questions at every visit: Number of times you have been pregnant: 2 Number of children living: 1 These questions follow routine ones, like medications being taken and changes in family history. Two pregnancies, one living child. It’s unambiguous.

Someone once told me to stare at a fluorescent light when trying not to cry in a public place. This causes the pupils to dilate and suppresses tears.

I hand my forms to the nurse and look up to find a light. She reads my answers aloud to confirm the information. There’s a brief silence, followed by a quiet “I’m sorry” as she types answers in from the form. Her fingers tap on the keyboard as she stares at the screen, with her back facing me.

There’s no invitation to share more, her eyes don’t search my face for more information. It’s an automatic response, almost robotic. Loss has happened to many women that have sat in her office.

Miscarriage is a lonely, well-traveled road. We live in a culture where pregnancy is kept mostly to oneself during the first trimester so mourning from an early life lost happens alone, or maybe with a few family members and close friends. There is an unspoken understanding that this grieving is done privately. Maybe that’s because science shows that we will likely end up with healthy pregnancies that lead to babies. The odds are with us. But the void, that doesn’t go away. The loss is not just of a baby but of who that person would have been in our family, of the plans and dreams that had already planted roots in our hearts. ›››

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i wonder if there’s such a thing

as loving the right amount

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I Survived Emotional Abuse

T

ransformation takes time. Limiting beliefs caused by years of emotional abuse confused me as to who I was. At my breaking point, I could no longer stay silent or listen to how worthless and stupid I was from the man who was supposed to love and support me. I decided no more excuses or explanations, it was time for a significant life change.

My marriage ended in 2014. I knew when leaving my exhusband he was going to make it difficult, but never had I imagined what was to come. Over the years I had tried to leave several times and was threatened to be exposed as a cheater, a liar, and to have my children taken away. Threats of suicide were also made to make me feel guilty. He played head games making me believe I was crazy; saying he never said specific things to me and those specific events never happened. When I finally had enough courage to leave I felt the full force of his anger.

He enlisted his friends, girlfriend, and family members to spread rumors about me. They specifically targeted our two oldest daughters. My relationship with them suffered due to the manipulative alienation tactics my ex-husband and his girlfriend used on them. They worked on my oldest

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daughter first, then moved on to our second oldest. After our two daughters cut off communication with me I was told by my ex-husband it was all my doing and I had lost two daughters. Anyone who would listen was told I threw our daughters out of my home.

I was heartbroken. I felt numb for days after the second alienation. How do you combat alienation when your children believe what they are told about you? The bigger question, why would he do this to our children? I took a step back and thought about what was happening for us.

We were the victims of a narcissist. Manipulation, bending the truth and playing victim to gain sympathy from unsuspecting children are ways narcissists operate.

The hardest thing I ever had to do as a mother was waiting for time to pass. The friends and family of my ex-husband called me a bad mother. I knew my truth, and deep down so did my children. I surrounded myself with love from my family and friends who fully supported me. I was afraid my ex-husband was going to start working on our two youngest children, which he did. ›››

I stopped making excuses ARE YOU ENJOYING THIS PREVIEW? for myself, there was no need for them.

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WORDS BY BARBARA ANN BRUNO | IMAGE BY WATARI

In May of 2017, my oldest daughter came back home. My daughter told me she was miserable when she was away from me. While away from me I showed her compassion but did not allow her or her sister to walk all over me for fear they would not want to come home. I stayed true to the mother I always was. She appreciated that the most.

We cried together and moved on. I am still working on a relationship with my other daughter. I equipped my younger children with positive life skills. My oldest daughter is learning them as well. When I am with them I build their self-confidence and self-esteem.

our separation. I decided to get fit and healthy and lose my post-pregnancy weight. I then looked inwards and began my emotional healing journey.

Emotional well-being was crucial for me to heal and to be a better mother for my children. Years of emotional abuse will leave anyone confused as to who they truly are. I embarked on a self-discovery journey and discovered I was not alone and it was okay to take care of myself. I stopped making excuses for everyone else and I took ownership of my life. I no longer accepted being told I was the cause of my ex-husband's temper or his other downfalls, those were his demons to deal with, not mine. I stopped making excuses for myself, there was no need for them. I no longer allowed anyone to make me their scapegoat for everything that went wrong.

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Never give up hope if you’ve been alienated from your children. Seek counseling and educate yourself. Your children need you now more than ever. Give them lots of patience and understanding. Stay true to who you are even when they hope to hurt you. Understanding they have been the target of manipulation by an adult will help ease your hurt and start the healing. When your children come back home, no questions asked, no judgment. Your understanding and support will speak volumes.

It’s not easy to endure alienation. The transformation journey I began a year prior to the alienation of my two daughters was my saving grace. Some say that fueled my ex-husband's vindictive behavior towards us more. I was a few months postpartum with our fourth child at the time of

I learned change is a choice. The strength I found within myself amazed me. I chose to be a survivor, not a victim. I made a new life for myself and my children on my terms. I found a career I love, and I have people in my life who love and support me just as I am. I had faith God was always with me and believed the universe had my back. Faith, hope, and confidence replaced fear. Does the emotional abuse ever end? That depends on your outlook and actions. Protect yourself and your children with education. Remember, you are never alone. & 43

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becoming me W

hen life as you know it is decimated, you get to choose who you become. Before my daughter died, I was insecure, anxious, and felt unworthy of love. Because I met my mortality through hers, I chose life and that meant accepting myself and living to the fullest extent.

Life before my daughter is now hardly recognizable.

As the oldest girl in the family, my childhood memories consist of being responsible for my younger siblings, playing with the neighbor kids, doing chores, and spending a tremendous amount of time with my best friend. But I also remember a constant feeling of being uncomfortable in my own skin.

I spent my lifetime trying to fit in. Labeled as the “emotional” one, I often felt on the outside both at home and at school. I felt insecure, always searching for approval externally from others. I couldn’t be satisfied with a job well done because my standards were so incredibly high.

I didn’t accomplish goals for myself, but instead for others to validate that I was “good enough”. I wanted so badly to fit in, but lacked the confidence to put myself out there. I struggled to make friends and always longed to be part of the group. Instead, I watched from a distance wondering what it felt like to be noticed, invited, and included.

Divorce separated my family when I was 17. At the time, I felt relief from all the fighting that had become the norm in our home, but it turned out to be the beginning of the end for our family. The unexpected changes proved to be too much and whether it was a result of those changes or teenage rebellion, I made choices that I don’t even recognize now that I am older. But feelings of isolation remained and I longed for love and attention.

WORDS BY AMIE LANDS | IMAGE BY MARK ESTES, NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP

After several years of poor choices, I eventually learned who I was by discovering who I was not. I discovered that I was capable of creating my own reality. I started making better decisions to make a future that I could feel proud of.

After leaving an unhealthy relationship, I created my life plan. I vowed to do things the “right” way, or what I considered to be right at the time. I got healthy - mentally, emotionally, and physically. I did what was expected. I graduated college, started a career, got married, bought a house, and got pregnant. I felt proud of my accomplishments and was anxious for our family to grow.

But creating a family did not turn out as I expected it to.

THE BREAKING POINT After a beautiful pregnancy, labor, and delivery, it was determined that my daughter would not survive off of life support. My life was shattered to a million pieces on that hospital room floor as the doctors explained that our daughter would die.

I was broken to nothing.

Externally, I did all I could to survive that time. I was brave in the days that followed, anticipating the impending death of my daughter. I stayed present in the moment, I held my baby girl all day long, told her stories, sang to her, smelled her, kissed her all over, and loved on her every waking minute.

Internally, my soul was destroyed. I felt like I had died a million deaths and was now a shell of my prior self. I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the person looking back at me. Even though my body was of a 30-year-old woman, I felt 75 years old. This wasn’t supposed to be my life. ›››

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be the light 48

AARE YOU ENJOYING THIS PREVIEW? few years ago, I hit a pretty low point in my life.

Stuck in some kind of heartbreak hell, I was constantly looking over my shoulder, bracing myself for the next setback. I expected disaster and the Universe delivered. Each new incident brought more grief, and I was losing hope for something better. I buried my nose in self-help books and chased the light, and still the darkness found me. In a fit of anger and frustration I wrote a blog post venting my exasperation, telling my readers I was sick of life lessons and learning from my mistakes. My entire existence, my profession, relationships, and a steady stream of volunteer work had me immersed in serving others. Sure, there were rewards, but mostly I felt emotionally depleted, beaten down as though I was a well-worn doormat. But I wasn’t going to give up. I pushed past my mini meltdown, stayed the course, and continued to search for answers.

I completely understood my daughter’s frustration. I remember holding back mad tears as someone once insisted my problems could be easily solved. Worse yet, she suggested I had contributed to my problems, basically cultivated my pain. My blood boiled. It’s not that her advice was bad, or untrue, it was good; but it was lost on me, a woman who wasn’t ready to hear it. As my daughter told her story, I saw my past and her future. My patterns had become her patterns. It scared me. I could not bear the thought of her suffering as I had for so many years. I wanted to prevent future pain. If she would just listen to me, learn from my experiences I could save her.

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Fast forward to my life today, the change has been dramatic. I quit my job, sold my house, and moved to Italy.

While these decisions certainly changed my life, they are not the actions that changed me. They were decisions I had the courage to make once I stopped living my life as though it had been carved in stone. My daily existence had become mostly sad, a reflection of my thoughts and actions. I needed to sow fresh new thoughts to reap the life I wanted. I started spending time with “light” minded people, and listened to supportive voices. I identified and cultivated my strengths and found my worthiness. I was deserving and capable of an amazing life, and the Universe responded with positive shifts. I became lighter, happier.

Making these types of positive self discoveries is a little like finding religion. It felt so good, I wanted everyone to know the secret.

The reality is that each of us finds our path to light and a fulfilling life in our own way and in our own time. A year or so ago this truth hit me over the head like a hammer. My daughter called me, teary and frustrated, and she recounted a serious problem she was having. As soon as she took a breath, I immediately launched into a list of solutions; positive thinking, meditation, gratitude, letting go. I was so busy pontificating she had to shout to interrupt my litany of life altering exercises, “MOM! Sorry, but right now unicorns and rainbows don’t work for me!”

Her frustration loud and clear, I was stunned into silence.

Instead of listening to her, I vomited the words of every self-help guru I had ever read. Our call ended without me helping her at all. My well-meaning words of wisdom fell flat.

Her reaction made me realize I had done something I swore I would never do, give unsolicited advice. I recommended books and strategies, programs and therapy. I had missed the most critical element for helping her, or anyone for that matter. I should have listened and loved without judgement.

Having received a continual stream of this kind of support from my friends and family, I knew its value, I knew better.

In my zeal to help, I got carried away. I wanted to provide her with a short cut. I wanted the people I cared for most to feel good now, to drink the Kool-aid and love it as much as I did.

I made a conscious decision to learn and grow from the experience. I stopped playing know-it-all savior. I had a lot to learn, and I could learn from anyone, whether or not they were on a spiritual path. I needed to shut up and listen. When I listened earnestly, with compassion and understanding, people were more vulnerable and spoke their true feelings. And a tiny miracle occurred. In the quiet pauses of thoughtful reflection, they could hear their own words, draw their own conclusions and discover their own way. Eventually, they built their own strength of character and their paths. As I have quieted, my daughter shares more. She is finding her way, at her own pace, in her own time. She is happier in spite of things still being hard.

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The greatest catalyst for my change was my admiration for those folks who seemed happiest in their lives. Their spirits were positive, light, and beautiful. Their lives were not perfect, some were quite difficult, still they chose to live their lives to the fullest. I wanted that too and began my transformation. Lesson: When we are light, we don’t need to shout it. We only need to be it. Others will see it, and they will want it too. &

WORDS AND IMAGES BY CHRISTINE AMOROSO

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r u e o Y Fir g r n it ne h n g I i L WORDS BY DENESE RUSSELL | IMAGES BY JESS WATTERS

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e’ve made Transformation such a big noun, like Happiness and Joy. We spend decades wondering why others have it easier, looking for a magical map, a person, place, or thing that’s going to take us from here to there. I’ve studied the way big lives are made - from the Oprahs to the rest of us and I’ve found the thing they do that moves them through obstacles, toward magic. And you can do it, too. &&& My friend Dove calls it a pet project.

After years in government work, she recognizes weariness.

People need something to pour their heart into and it’s not always going to be work or children. If an employee was passionate about charity, she encouraged them to make it part of their life. If they could re-kindle their inner fire, they were happier.

“Keeping that fire lit is a big deal,” she says. “The distraction and ease of modern conveniences has made us forget the work it takes to keep our own fire burning. We get so accustomed to not feeling, that it takes a sprained ankle, a divorce, a birthday, something we call catastrophic, to shake us.”

For Dove, it took sickness and cancer.

The diagnosis shifted her mission from “How I’ll Live When I Retire” to “How Can I Not Die.” Rather than blaming God for giving her cancer, she accepted partial responsibility, oriented her life around yoga, paying attention to what was burning within her, and sharing what she was learning. She also had a book in her.

“Dreaming is great because that’s where creativity lies. But our spirit thrives in 3-D. Feeling it in action fans the flame.”

She gave herself a deadline, then beat herself up when it passed. She had to check herself, asking why she was stressing over self-imposed deadlines. She got the stories out of her, made three spiral bound copies, two for her, one for an illustrator and asked, “Would Amazon stocking it make the book more real?” She‘s no longer sick and considers it a gift to have learned by 46 that all she has to do is manage her energy and tend her fire. ›››

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the magic of

i m pro

v

WORDS BY ERICA M. BAUMAN | IMAGE BY DESIGNECOLOGIST

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I

ARE YOU ENJOYING THIS PREVIEW? ’m in love. I’m in love with improv. If improv were a dude I would marry him. Do you understand what I’m saying? As Luke Danes said to Lorelai Gilmore on Gilmore Girls, “I’m in; I’m all in.”

found what I was learning each week was such a direct hit internally that it was embedding itself quickly and showing up throughout my daily interactions. There were some difficult issues popping up in my personal life during those weeks that normally would have elicited anxiety, obsessive replays, and analyzations. Instead, I was able to remain present, able to accept, and equipped to respond with ease and joy. I was also finding myself less filtered (which was fun for everyone) and inspired creatively.

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I attended an introductory class on a whim, having only the most menial possible stage experience and a pocket full of reasons why attending would rail against my every nerve.

Driving to a location I had never been, being surrounded by strangers, being expected to react with expertly wielded spontaneity enough to be found funny, would be a cocktail for disaster sure to ignite my anxiety. Yet I pressed on; an act that surprised me and everyone I know. That one act, of pushing myself just enough past my normal boundaries, would be followed by many more like it as I enrolled in the Level One Fundamentals class.

I was nervous, at times, but not to the extent that I wanted to hide within the group or abandon the class altogether.

Somehow, while I was being invited to work from places of my brain that were usually back-stocked, I was relaxed.

Everything else fell away. I was lit up inside and felt fully alive. I was mystified by the completely chill atmosphere and the connectivity that seemed to come with ease between folks from a variety of backgrounds and lifestyles, having only just met. We were instructed on the basics of improv, which I found out was not centered on being funny but being authentic. We were there to let go, and as that vulnerability was permitted to be squeezed everything that flowed was somehow enlightening, lovely, or naturally funny. Together, we learned how to be fully present and meet each other in an unfamiliar space.

Prior to the improv classes, I was finding it increasingly difficult to manage juggling my own life and responsibilities framed in a society that was a hotbed of controversy and polarization politically speaking. This toxic combination left me feeling in a way that was beyond my inner resources, leading me to reach out to my therapist. We had a conversation about what it was that specifically bothered me about what I was experiencing. I said that I felt extremely aware of how unsafe the world was, and the intensity of that awareness was infiltrating my normal functions. When asked what would make me feel safe, I remember laughing and suggesting Krav Maga classes. On a serious note, not only did I find the style intriguing, but I felt a self-defense course would cause me to feel stronger, more confident, generally prepared for any situation. So, as you know, I ended up in improv classes instead which ironically have led me to sharpening those exact skills. As I prepare to start level two classes and am now one of two stage managers for the weekly shows, I have to say that I am still in awe of this community that I am embracing and feeling the return on that has been magical, medicinal, and more than I expected. It’s all about heart of improv itself; saying “yes,” then raising the bar by meeting that with such a positive force you bring something to the table, no matter how it’s been set before you, by also saying “and”.

You practice grace in the realm of “no mistakes,” knowing that it’s all fodder for developing character(s.) &

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We practiced supporting each other with active listening skills coupled with an awareness of the energy shared between us. Every night I left the sessions feeling lighter, joyful, and somehow fortified. I didn’t feel the need to rush into isolation to repair or process anything. Instead, I

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The Alchemy of Motherhood WORDS BY SOPHIE CALDECOTT | IMAGES BY ROSE-MARIE CALDECOTT

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hen I dream, I’m not a mother; I’m not 8 months pregnant, and I don’t have a four-year-old daughter. It’s almost as if my subconscious mind hasn’t processed that this seismic shift in my identity has happened yet. Sometimes I wonder if it ever will.

The world tries to simplify the experience of being a woman—and therefore being a mother, too—down into easy-to-understand categories, but I’ve never found that I fit comfortably into these boxes. “Do you want children?” we are asked. Yes, no, maybe; how on earth am I supposed to know?, I used to think.

I settled on “yes” in my mid-twenties, but not because I have an innate love of all babies or feel some irresistible biological urge calling me to procreate.

My “yes” came about because I met a good man that I loved and who loved me, and I found myself wanting to build a family with him, to create the kind of home environment I was blessed with in my own childhood.

I’m in this for the long game: noisy family dinners around the table at the end of the school and work day, cozy Christmas holidays, quiet evenings sitting on my teenage daughter’s bed talking about life, the universe, and everything.

When my daughter was born, I didn’t feel the immediate desire to hold her like I assumed I would. Afterwards, I stood in the bathroom bathed in institutional fluorescent light, and stared at my reflection in the mirror: inner thighs streaked with red, the clammy, shining face of someone who has just broken a fever, a strange limp belly, hanging like a deflated balloon. Slowly, a numb awareness that I was truly alone in my own body again for the first time in eight months and 27 days started to form. The only instinct I recognized at that moment was an urgent desire to get clean and to reclaim my body.

People talk about motherhood as if it’s something so deep and instinctive that you don’t ever have to think about the sacrifice, that it always comes totally naturally and spontaneously—that’s why I thought the transition to this new identity would be effortless.

It was a shock, then, when sometimes I was jerked awake by the crying, having temporarily forgotten that I had a baby, all maternal instincts apparently vanished into the darkness. Sometimes my husband had to shake me gently awake and remind me that the baby needed to eat, that I couldn’t just pull the nearest pillow over my head and wait for her noisy need for me to go away and leave me to sleep in peace.

Perhaps the maternal instinct just doesn’t come naturally to me, or maybe the fact is that we’re led to believe it will all be a lot more straightforward than it truly is.

During the hormonal haze of postnatal depression, I felt like I had lost my voice, my internal compass, and even my ability to write, a reflex that had always helped me to process difficult and life-changing things before then. I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to write again; for as long as I can remember, one of the few fixed and sure things I’ve known about myself is that I’m a writer. I knew it before I knew I wanted to get married and have children. What if this essential part of me has died?, I worried. ›››

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Moth erh o o d i nvolve s a te n s io n b e twe e n glor y a nd h or ror t h at eve n —o r p e rh a p s, es p e c i ally — moth ers t he m s elve s fi nd it h a rd to ad mit.

A New Life in Vienna WORDS BY ERIN EAST | IMAGES BY JACEK DYLAG

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V

ienna is a city of dichotomies.

In Austria’s ancient capital, centuries-old coffee houses sit alongside modern cafes.

Heavy velvet drapes and wood-panelled walls compete with the concrete industrial vibe of hipster hangouts.

Nineteenth century buildings create avenues of art: facades of intricately patterned doors, turquoise grates, and pastel colored stone walls transport you to a time before electricity. The smell of bratwurst sizzling in sausage stands brings you back. From rooftops, statues of Greek goddesses peer into glass sky scrapers. On the street, old cobblestones mix with new cement paths. Both are spotless. There is not a hint of trash. All is order and predictability – but cars will randomly stop to let you cross the road.

ornaments, casting riotous colors. I watched locals and tourists line up for mulled wine, mingle against standing tables, and barter with vendors over the price of Christmas baubles. It was a Christmas card brought to life. As I sipped my scalding cider I paused.

This is what I learned as I pushed open the UN’s heavy steel doors and crossed the circular foyer. Inside the UN’s white walls, I met spouses that no label could ever fully define. Within one group of partners were different nationalities, cultures, ages, and interests. What I saw was not the same experience repeated but a tapestry of lives. We share limited legal rights, and the desire to support our spouses. But beyond this we are as different as the old Viennese coffee house is to the on-trend café. I met spouses who use this time to learn languages. I met others who develop new interests. There are others still who volunteer for charities or seek opportunities to work with the UN.

ARE YOU ENJOYING THIS PREVIEW? Expats pour into Vienna. But foreign employees do not come alone. They bring with them their partners, their children, and their pets. We are the baggage and the entourage. The cheer squad and the distraction. Pack up the furniture. Box up the clothes. Ship over the wife and child. Before moving to Vienna, I knew who I was: wife, mother, research officer, and editor. But without an equal legal status you exist in the shadows. I had no appointments, no responsibilities. No one was expecting me. As I walked across Maria-TheresiaPlatz, I felt alone in the crowd. With nothing to do and nowhere to go, I realized I had become a stereotype.

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Over the past two years since moving to Vienna I’ve grown comfortable with these contradictions, for I could be called a contradiction. Who am I? Officially, I am a Gattin, an Austrian term meaning ‘wife’. Once I was a highly educated, independent woman. Now my right to work, to rent a home, to open a bank account, and to do the myriad of small things that together make up a life is tethered to my husband's legal rights. My rights are dependent on his.

In Austria, I am no more and no less than this: a wife of a diplomat. You may know me by the term ‘trailing spouse’.

When you hear the words ‘trailing spouse’ what comes to mind? Typically, the phrase conjures images of museum visits and long, unhurried lunches. Play dates at parks. Nights at the opera. A life of idleness financed by your partner’s salary. The stereotypical trailing spouse indulges in shopping. She – and the stereotype is most definitely a she – slims down and tones up at the gym. She spins a web of scandal. ‘Did you hear that she went to that museum with him?’

‘I heard that he didn’t get the contract extension.’ It’s Desperate Housewives but with a more exotic setting.

There is an expat enclave in Vienna. The United Nations compound is a world apart, with no traces of the imperial grandeur of Vienna’s past. All is modern white towers curved around a central courtyard. In this courtyard flags idle, limp in the breeze, providing a pop of color against a backdrop of white. Two months after visiting the Christmas markets, I wandered through the UN courtyard. I looked up at the network of interlinking white panels and frosted glass. I didn’t see the buildings glisten in the sunlight. I didn’t see how the individual panels knitted together to form a new whole. All I saw is how I felt: just one anonymous panel identical to any other. Just another trailing spouse.

Just another stereotype.

As for me, I’m seeing that life is like the baroque gardens at Schönbrunn Palace. As you walk through you see the pinks, purples, reds and greens of the individual flower beds. But you only see how each curve twists together to form an intricate pattern when you look from above. My time as a trailing spouse is an opportunity to evaluate life and to examine my strengths, my weaknesses and my values. It is a chance to define myself outside the nine-tofive. In Vienna, I can pursue writing in a new culture, and find the courage to navigate new languages, bureaucracies and customs.

As I sit in an old Viennese coffee house, my hand traces art nouveau carvings in wooden walls. I sink back into green velvet upholstery. I sip my latte and study the stained-glass window separating the customers from the kitchen. The individual glass panels combine to form a picture of flowers spilling out of a blue vase. I’m reminded of the flowers at Schönbrunn and the glass panels at the UN. I realize that life is a series of moments woven together. I am a contradiction. I am an independent woman who for the moment is a dependent spouse. But this moment will pass. I stare out the window onto the busy street and watch as cars break to let pedestrians cross. I enjoy the moment, and know that when the next moment comes I’ll be ready. &

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One December afternoon, I strolled through Maria-Theresia-Platz in the center of Vienna’s museum district.

Green wooden huts snaked around the nearly treeless park. The glow of fairy lights bounced off Christmas

But stereotypes are reviled for a reason.

Broad categories never encapsulate the truth. When you think of your life, what labels could you apply? What labels are applied to you? Do they capture your spirit? If your circumstances were stripped away, would you know yourself ? These are the questions that confront trailing spouses. But while we face the same questions, our answers vary. It is in our differences that we find our identity, for it is in our differences that we find ourselves.

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WORDS AND ARTICLE IMAGES BY ROBIN KENNEDY | TITLE IMAGE BY ADAM WILSON

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ast week, a friend asked, “Do you consider yourself an alcoholic?” I took a moment to consider the question that I’ve never asked. This year marked nine years of my sobriety. In order to claim “sober”, did I have to also claim “addict”?

I thought back to my “before” life: I’m 18. It’s the winter after high school. I work at Wal-Mart and go to community college. I’m visiting the local university where my girlfriend is a student. Well…”girlfriend”, I guess, is a loose term. She still has a boyfriend, we haven’t told anyone we’re sleeping together, and neither of us is comfortable wearing the “gay” label. She just “beer-bonged” what was left of a fifth of vodka, and I’ve been doing shots of whatever is available. We’re dancing provocatively on a bar in a frat house while people gawk at us. Clothes begin to come off.

I wake up the next day with photos being passed around of that night.

I’m 20. I’ve finished basic training and completed my job training. I’ve been stationed in Germany. During the only European trip I’ll take in my two years overseas, I’ve passed out on the floor of a Belgian bar, and four huge bouncers are carrying me out. Each man has one limb, and they deposit me--hard--on the sidewalk. I wake up the next day covered in vomit and urine.

I’m 24. I’ve been stationed in Florida. I’ve met two girls who introduce me to the local gay scene. We go out every single night. Today, we’re day-drinking. I drink until it’s nearly 8:00 pm and decide I need to go home. My friend attempts to take my keys. I fight her until she relents. I drive home and pass out. I wake up the next day to text messages.

My friend followed me to ensure I made it home. She recounts watching me run every red light from the bar to my apartment. When I go outside, I see that I’ve nearly parked my SUV on top of the wooden steps leading to my front door.

Another two inches, and I would’ve demolished the porch.

Most of my twenties were a string of nights exactly like this.

Some were marginally better. A lot were ten times worse.

Does that make me an alcoholic? I’m not sure.

The one thing I can say with certainty about my sobriety: Getting sober was not the magic pill I had hoped it would be.

Sober living – for me – wasn’t a huge, drawn-out decision.

It wasn’t even based on the idea that I drank too much. On New Year’s Day in 2009, I woke up and decided that I’d see how long I could go without drinking. The plan wasn’t to “get sober.” It was just something I wanted to test. ›››

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BE THE

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CHANGE.

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Late Nights

Lost Bets WORDS BY KATIE FAULK | IMAGES BY ALEX PASARELU

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ARE YOU ENJOYING THIS PREVIEW? “Y ou never come to parties anymore.” My friend’s voice is mournful. We’re watching my youngest daughter snatch fries off my plate, blissfully ignoring the healthy food I’d ordered for her.

Grace is the forgiveness my daughters and I give each other ten thousand times a day. It’s the way every slammed door is followed up with a hug. Courage is going to bed on a day when I think I can’t take these early years one single second longer and waking up ready to try again.

I tell her I’m sorry, but mostly, I’m just tired. I want to say no one told me I’d be so tired at 31, but I kind of feel like everyone did.

Faith is the shades of the women they will become in their toddler faces, and our trust that we will get them there.

Even though they spent the whole day drawing on each other’s legs and fighting over a piece of string one of them found on the floor, those grown-up women are still in there, waiting for us to find them.

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In my twenties, I had this bet with myself. I’d be the final person awake at the party, after everyone else had crashed in guest rooms or found their way home. Conversations seem so much more intense at 4 a.m. Breakfast tasted so much better with just a few hours of sleep and the edge of a hangover headache held off with endless cups of weak coffee.

I loved those late nights.

Honesty is admitting that I am completely in over my head.

There are days I’d trade my left arm to leave the house without a thirty-minute parade of begging, pleading, and eventually threatening two small children to just put the other shoe on already, or for the quiet of an empty house on a Sunday afternoon.

When my husband and I decided to try for a baby, we swore up and down that basically nothing would change. It’s a miracle our parents did not injure themselves laughing.

Love is finally wishing them good night and then immediately wishing they were still awake, so I could hold them longer.

I’ve had two babies in four years, and I can tell you the exact date I last slept through the night for a week straight.

It was in July 2014. I will treasure those memories forever.

I always hated women that talked about how motherhood changed them. I made another bet - I wouldn’t be the woman who changed. I swore like a sailor and drank too much coffee, had bookshelves groaning from too many books. None of that would be different just because I had a baby.

Nights I nearly saw the dawn have been traded for a life where a “late night” means I made it to ten o’clock. All those arguments on my friend’s couch have been traded for a never-ending discussion about using chapstick to paint the walls. Again.

I lost the bet. I mean, I definitely still swear a lot. I have piles of books stacked in front of bookshelves that are full.

I’m still buying more.

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I want to go back in time and tell that twentysomething passionately arguing philosophy in the wee morning hours to sleep now, while she still can. At the same time, I want to hug her and tell her to keep going, because these years won’t come back around again.

That twentysomething version of me is in for an education.

Motherhood is a living lesson in every virtue, looking nothing like we expected. For one thing, there’s a lot more spit-up and wordless scream-singing involved in patience than I had anticipated.

I’m also a mother, with my whole heart racing headlong ahead of me into the world each day. That’ll change a person whether they like it or not.

I am no longer interested in being the last one awake at the party, but I’m still spending a lot of nights deep in conversation while sitting on the couch. The conversations are more about why we don’t hit our sister with plastic zebras, but they’re pretty damn intense.

I still drink too much coffee. &

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Postpartum Depression

The Transformation of

WORDS & IMAGES BY KEZIAH KELSEY

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ransformation is a process; it is rarely quick and sometimes drags on for years. The process of becoming a mother really isn’t as fast as we think, is it? It isn’t that one day you’re waiting and then the next a baby arrives and somehow, magically, you’re a MOTHER with all the skills and knowledge to do the best job.

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What happens more often than we talk about is that the process is grinding and difficult; it steals from our joy, it hides our confidence away and replaces it with fear. Motherhood is a sort of badlands of anxiety, loneliness, and frustration. 1 in 5 mothers are struck with postpartum depression (PPD) and in those tender maternal hearts, the normal swarm of bad feelings gets whipped up into an overwhelming doomsday storm. We once were a competent, fairly happy woman and then, through the fire of PPD, we transform into this other person, this other mother.

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Christine says, “A lot of my mom friends didn’t share with me that they had similar experiences prior to mine.

I wish there was more honesty about PPD in my social circle at the time. Had I known it wasn’t just me, I would have possibly felt less alone. So many of us aren’t used to talking about it, perhaps shame? I don’t know. I don’t fault anyone, it is what it is at this point.“

Finding a pathway out of the dark, finding the key to continue the transformation, to become a phoenix from the ashes of PPD is no easy task. It requires so much when you feel like you have so little left to give; this is the moment of your transformation, the shift to steel as you lower your chin and push forward with all the grit you can bring to bear. Sometimes it’s small things, like getting dressed or reading a storybook to your tiny human, when you just want to stay in bed. Sometimes it’s asking for help, leaning on your partner and circle of sisters.

Amber says, “After she was born, I was so depressed I could barely function. It got really bad, I was scared and my husband was scared. My doctor said to take a bath with her every single night, no matter what. So I did, and my husband sat outside the door; listening, waiting, just being there for us. Now, it's better and bath time is still where we connect, it's the thing that saved us.”

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What would I tell other moms in the dark? You are amazing. You are a goddess. You are doing a great job.

Look for that light. Even if it's being grateful for a good cup of coffee that day, hold onto that. There is always something to be thankful for. You deserve help, it is OK to ask. You deserve the world. Love yourself, your partner, and your baby. You will make it out. Accept help.

– Love, Moms who have transformed into their truest selves &

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Every Death Counts

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WORDS BY LAUREN SANTERRE | IMAGE BY BENCH ACCOUNTING

“A thousand times we die in one life. We crumble, break and tear apart until the layers of illusion are burned away and all that is left, is the truth of who and what we really are.”

-Teal Scott

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fter dinner she said to me, “So, would you consider becoming our next CEO?” Before I could even think, the words flew out of my mouth, “Oh no, I don’t want that job.”

finished a degree, and moved into a new home. I barely spoke to anyone except my family and close friends. I abandoned social media. I prayed for several hours most days. I wrote in my journal and tried to understand what exactly had happened. How did I get to this place of death? I felt my identity shifting and changing. I became dependent on my husband to take care of me as I fought to find my equilibrium again. The person I thought I was continued to die over and over again.

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I was thirty-two years old. I had worked day and night at my non-profit organization for five years. Twelve-hour workdays were common. Weekends were often devoted to work. I gave nearly everything I had to that job. I wanted to be successful. More importantly, anything less than excellence felt like failure to me. I feared failure.

Many board members of the organization believed I would be a good CEO. I was honored by their faith in me. But after working so hard for five years, half of my hair had fallen out from stress and overwork. I was beyond burned out. In my body and spirit, I felt I would die if I said yes.

A part of me died anyway that night. Several months later, I resigned my position because I did not know what else to do. My migraines were raging, my digestion was horrible, and I was exhausted. I was not physically, mentally, or spiritually in the place to lead that organization.

When I left, I lost many things. I lost many professional connections and friends that I had made in my six-year tenure. I lost my status as a prominent professional in the non-profit sector. I lost the possibility of advancing my career in that organization. I lost my paycheck. I lost part of my identity.

That year I learned that every death counts. We tend to think about death as the final moment we pass from this life to the next. But death is so much more. We truly do die a thousand times. We die when we leave a job. We die when we break up with someone. We die when our body changes, or when we develop a chronic illness. We die when we lose our possessions. We die when we lose a child. We die when our best friend betrays us. Death is always a part of life.

Death is scary because we never know what is on the other side of it. We do not know how our life will look after we lose our job title, our marriage, our friend, or our home.

But I have learned that transformation comes through death. The thousand deaths we experience shape us. They reveal truth to us: the truth of what is important, the truth of who we are, and the truth of who we want to become.

Four years after turning down that big job, I am living a new life. I have been transformed by my choices and the grace that comes with death. Sometimes I still mourn the possibility of what might have been if I had said “yes” that night, but I have learned so many lessons from my “no.”

I have learned how to be still and wait on God. I have learned how to loosen my grip and my need for control in life. I have learned how to set boundaries. I have learned that leadership takes many forms. I have learned that there is life after death and it can be surprisingly wonderful.

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For two years, I blamed the organization and its leadership for the significant stress and damage to my body. I blamed them for my decision to resign. But I simply did not want to face the truth. Yes, there was pressure in my job, but I was responsible for my response to that pressure. I did not know how to set boundaries. I did not understand working that hard for so long could hurt me. I did not know that more effective communication could have changed my experience. I felt incapable of saying, “No, I can’t do that.”

Somewhere along the way, I developed a belief that the word “no” was a sign of weakness, laziness, and defeat.

After a brief one-year position of work at another nonprofit, I finally collapsed. I needed to rest. I took a oneyear sabbatical from work. During that year, I got married,

So, whatever death you are encountering right now in your life, I want to encourage you. Death is not the end. Death is integral to transformation and leads to new life. There is pain, but there is also hope. Remember, every death you experience now changes you and your life, preparing you to draw your final breath with grace, gratitude, and hope for the eternal life to come. &

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THE WILDER 78

WORDS BY MADELINE RANSTROM | IMAGE BY GERAN DE KLERK

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A myself.

s a young girl, I was a ballerina for many years.

I was drawn to dance because I loved the way I felt when my body was in motion. I loved the search for rhythm, movement, and space within

I supported these young women as they learned to tie their boots, carry a backpack, set up a tent, ford a river, cook a meal, make a fire. Surviving in the wilderness causes a person to fully inhabit their body and be present in a way that few other things do. Just the basics of staying warm, finding shelter, making a meal can take great effort and energy. Wilderness can beat a body down and strip it bare of all its defenses, making a person feel raw and exposed. But it also offers the opportunity to connect to and summon one’s deepest strength, tenacity, and power.

Wilderness offers space to exist in all one’s emotions-pain, joy, boldness, ferocity, love.

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Ballet is a strange art form because it can be unsparing, exacting, brutal on a young body and soul, but this pain must always be masked, as dance and dancer transform into something effortless, delicate, and beautiful. In order to excel in my art, I learned how to do this. I learned to mask my drive and fire, mask my strength and struggle, mask my need for connection to other young women.

Not only did this become habit in my dancing life— I felt a similar message mirrored in my life outside of dance.

The message that a young woman should be pleasant and palatable was mirrored in many areas of my life.

The trouble with being palatable was that I was distanced from my needs and desires, I became detached from myself.

Through my teenage and young adult years, I often felt at war with myself. I felt that in order to receive love, I had to exist for others. I felt an ever-present sense of constraint; my body was was not my own.

I found solace in spending time outside.

This peace I found in the wilderness led me to start working as a guide for a wilderness therapy company serving young women who had experienced trauma. These young women spent months in the woods trying to reconnect to their bodies and spirits, trying to rewire their brains and habits, trying to rediscover some sense of purpose and wholeness.

When I came to this work, I expected it to be tough. It is a difficult task to say yes, over and over, to stepping into the muck and the mess alongside others. I found my purpose in helping these women cultivate a sense of safety and selfsufficiency within themselves. I witnessed as they began to rebuild a home in their bodies. As they began to own their stories, and their scars, and their strength.

What I didn’t expect was how I would be transformed. I learned to live in a tribe, as I helped these women connect with their physicality to move through trauma. I learned how to sit with pain; theirs and my own, without trying to dim it, hide it, or fix it. In the woods, I learned how strong I was; how capable my body, spirit, and soul. I rekindled and restored a connection to my deepest needs, fears, and dreams.

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My role was to be a facilitator, to create the space and container for these women to wade through the depths of their trauma. What we know about trauma is that it lives in the body. Our experiences are stored physically, our body acts as the great memory keeper. Reconnecting to the body can help us reconnect with the self.

I began to animate my body in a new kind of way. I viewed myself not as other, but as part of the wild. I became more loving and reverent of my physical self, deeply connecting to the wilderness around me and the wilderness within me.

The wilderness offered me the space to unearth and surface the deepest and darkest parts of myself and then renew, rise, and bloom. &

NESS WITHIN

Hearing Crickets (and other small transformations)

WORDS AND ARTICLE IMAGE BY NANCY CAVILLONES | TITLE IMAGE BY HAYES POTTER

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Image by Rachel Rouhana 83

LaughTer

is the Best Medicine 84

WORDS & IMAGES BY TONJA BORTLE

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ust breathe. He’s alive. Whatever else comes of it, however he may look, he’s still alive.

My thoughts grew quiet as I approached him. I kneeled beside him, trying to ignore how badly I was trembling.

“Where does it hurt?”

“My legs,” he grimaced. “I can’t feel my legs.” He dug his fingers into the earth, squeezing until his knuckles were white. “I’m so stupid!” he roared. His face was turning pale.

Don’t let him go into shock. Make him laugh!

“Well, you wanted this.” I said sheepishly.

He flicked his eyes open and turned to look at me, clenching his jaw.

"You even warned me!” I said playfully.

I tucked my chin toward my chest and lowered two octaves. “Look babe. I’m a man, okay? You need to accept the fact that I’ll probably crash and break a bone while mountain biking.” I paused, half embarrassed at my manly impersonation. “Now here you are, babbling on about how much pain you’re in!” I said with a grin.

He smiled as he let out a laugh. He winced and released his grip on the earth reaching for my hand. “Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

When the Rescue Team arrived, it became clear that he hadn’t lost his usual wit. They cut off his camel pack and he brought the team to a halt. “Whoa, whoa, who is going to pay for that?” he playfully barked. “I hope one of you know how to sew or have $120 cash on hand!” You could see their nervous tension deflate as they laughed.

I found my way to the ER thirty minutes after leaving the scene. I sat in the waiting room for over two hours pushing out every thought of him possibly being paralyzed. I spent the entire time staring at a photo he insisted I take. “I’ve never been on a gurney before!” he pleaded to the paramedics. He never looked better; he was fit and full of life. He’s going to be okay.

Finally, they called me back to see him. When I peeked in, he was laying chillingly still.

I reached for his hand and smiled softly, “How are you feeling?” He waited.

“Burst fracture.” He said looking above his head. “I – I broke my back.” I squeezed his hand tightly as a tear escaped my eye. Maybe everything isn’t going to be okay. ›››

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Image by Rachel Rouhana

Photo by Ishan Sharma

Almost Indian WORDS BY MARIANNA SHARMA

I

prefer wearing jeans to a saree, though I haven’t even tried one. I have never put sindoor (red vermillion powder) into my hair partition or worn red dot of bindi between the eyebrows, like Indian wives do.

Tall and fair, grey-eyed with curls cascading over shoulders or loosely gathered into a bun, I hardly look Indian. Leaving my looks untouched, six years in India have passed changing me unnoticeably but profoundly.

Born in a middle class family at the time of Perestroika, I was raised without indulgences. After Ukraine declared its independence in 1991, my parents’ world as they knew it was blown away. Factories were shut down with domino effect. The military enterprise, where my father had worked for forty years, was no exception. Both my parents had suddenly lost their jobs and savings. There was no currency, no constitution, no decent products on the shelves, no educational standards. A new country was born. In a way, I guess, we were growing up together.

The next ten years were tough for all of us. Being the head of the electronics department not so long ago, my dad was job hopping to provide for our family. Mom started growing fruits and vegetables in the garden.

Loving but strict, my parents were trying to shape the best possible future for me. “Study well, so you can live better than we did”, my mom nudged. And I did. Graduated with a gold medal from high school, I got a seat and stipend at the government university. My Bachelor’s and Master’s degree diplomas with excellence marks were the trophies that I handed to my parents. It was time to begin independent life. ›››

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After getting a full-time job at a digital marketing firm in Kyiv, I rented a tiny apartment on the other side of the city and moved out from the parental home. I had grown to be completely self-sufficient.

However humble it was, I managed monthly finances in a way that my basic needs were covered.

Like a boy in a skirt, I was the leader in a small circle of relationships I had built. First one to advise and help my friends, I could never ask for or accept help myself. Though the man I thought I would marry was a journalist seven years elder to me, I wanted to be his equal partner. We equally contributed to our budget, shared the same duties at home, loved reading books of similar kind. It took me five years to realize that clinging to each other as we were wouldn't lead to creating a family. He was not a person who would take responsibility was the truth I finally had the courage to admit to myself. Back to square one, I had to feel the ground under my feet again. By this time I was practicing meditation on heart, or raja yoga, with a group called Sahaj Marg for almost two years.

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I traveled to India for the first time in the quest for spirituality. Far away from home, meditating in the crowd of strangers, I was looking for the reasons of my life. I stumbled upon peace inside myself instead.

Walking barefoot on the red soil of Tirrupur, eating with my hands, getting soaked to the skin in monsoon showers that hit unexpectedly, were my first experiences of India. Amidst noisy streets and honking vehicles, chaotic movement, and heartily Indian smiles I felt unfamiliar warmth inside my heart. Like the puddle beginning to run down the side of a hill in a very small trickle, it was love I had never known before. Unconditional gratitude for being alive. There was another strange feeling haunting me - I didn’t know why, but I knew I’d be back.

didn’t know how to deal with a plumber, or bargain when, at the sight of a foreigner, goods were suddenly overpriced. On the other hand, I found so many things in India to be wonderful. There was a man in the lift of our office building whose plastic chair occupied almost all of its space. Going up and down several stories the whole day, he would take passengers to their desired floor. You could see matki (earthen pots) with potable water outside almost every shop on the road. Drinking in the Indian way, or using the same steel glass without touching the rim, you could quench your thirst anytime for free.

Joining Sudhir’s brand design consulting firm in Pune intrigued me professionally and personally. Along with the opportunity to leverage my knowledge in marketing and design, it was a great chance to adjust to a new culture as well. Accustomed to a very competitive business environment in Ukraine, learning the way Indian teams worked was challenging. I asked too many whys. Why there were more people working on design requiring the effort of only one? Why didn’t meetings happen on time? Why was everyone so relaxed? This was the office where I had not seen colleagues argue even when the deadlines were tight. They would team up instead, take the pressure together, and savor pizza in the late working hours. A loner by nature, I had to deal with many people daily to get my work done. Lucky to observe and experience Indian culture in a friendly environment, I have learnt to let things take their course rather than pressurize the outcome. This approach came in handy in family life, too.

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Ironically, my husband is Indian. Successful designer and entrepreneur, much elder to me, Sudhir drew me like a magnet. His past was lengthier than mine, of course, but from the moment we met, I felt I had always known him. This was the man for whom I left my Ukrainian life behind and, facing the unknown, moved to India.

We worked together for a few years, and then got married. The two-bedroom apartment in the suburbs of Pune, where I then lived on my own, felt like a palace compared to the tiny place I had in Kyiv. Throwing curve balls at me, mundane India turned out to be not as romantic, as it appears to a traveler. Buying vegetables at kiranawala, moving around in auto rickshaws, and even crossing a road were adventures here rather than a daily routine. I

Becoming a wife was a pivotal moment which brought out the feminine angle of my personality. Something I was desperately trying to seek through books and meditation has happened so effortlessly with the right partner at the right time. Sudhir’s leadership, and our age difference, naturally led to mutual respect and care. Finally relaxed, I feel myself a woman. To support is as important for a happy relationship as to lead, I now realize. There is no need to prove my importance with making decisions or earning more. I have intuitively stepped into a complementary role. My mother-in-law became my role model of being a woman. She demonstrates femininity as being able to think of others first, creating a loving atmosphere at home, responding to crankiness with patience. Non-judgmental and inclusive, this sacred energy is like fertile soil that fosters growth and keeps families together.

My husband believes all these years have made me Indian in disguise.

I’ve only learnt that happiness is not about you, it’s about making others happy. & 89

Dear Soul Sister...

Today’s the day. The day you have been preparing yourself for, the day you feel it in your bones – you are strong today.

Don’t you wish it was just that easy? Like picking a date to host a party, or start that diet you have been talking about. Like circling the date on your calendar; today’s the day I see myself as the person I really am.

Letting go of all those high school comments, dirty looks, days you felt bloated, and worried about how others would see you and what they think - just be yourself. The strong, beautiful, confident woman you were meant to be.

God wrote your story and planned this beautiful life for you to see and act out. He never once wanted you to be upset with yourself or think you are not worthy.

Have you ever envied the girl with the big smile, the one who has it “all together?” She must not have ever had anyone disappoint her or leave. She must have gotten all she ever wanted ... or she chose to rise above.

This is you!

Let these challenges shape you. Let these stories you have in your soul encourage others. Let today be your day.

Let go of all those disappointments and discouraging feelings.

You were meant for today; to realize who you really are.

This was me. I was the one who envied the girl smiling every time I saw her. I was the one who was mad when my clothes didn’t fit right or upset because I didn’t have the courage to say exactly how I felt.

I was the one who held on to that exact emotion I was feeling the day my parents divorced, the day I didn’t get the job I applied for, the day the doctor told me bad news. The day that I just wasn’t feeling “myself.” I held on to those emotions and wore them like a heavy winter coat.

Until one day I looked in the mirror and the coat slowly came off, in tear form of course. Tears poured down my face as I realized I had been carrying these emotions around for way too long – letting them form me into the person I was not made to be.

Take off that coat! Take those emotions and toss them into your past – be thankful you do not have to live them every day, because you don’t.

Today’s your day, choose to be who you are – confident, strong, beautiful. Live those words and the rest will fall into place. & Love, Your Soul Sister Betsy Grinder

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ISSUE 17: TRANSFORMATION 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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