Holl & Lane, Issue 20 Preview (Growth)

TH E G R OW TH I SSUE , 2019 Collection, Volume II, Issue 20

HOLL & LAN E

Team SARAH HARTLEY Creator / Editor in Chief sarahhartley.net editor@hollandlanemag.com

Special Thanks To: MEGAN JEDLINSKI Cover Model meganjedlinski.com PAIGE BABILLA Cover Photographer paigebabilla.com

MIA SUTTON Editorial Manager mia-sutton.com stories@hollandlanemag.com

JESS DOWNEY Social Media Manager chaoticcollectedinc.com

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

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

In Every Issue

SOCIAL

04 Regular Contributors

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.

05 Issue Contributors 06 Editor’s Note 08 The List 98 Write With Us

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In This Issue

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10 Rising from the Ashes of Bankruptcy Sometimes our greatest growth is the result of our lowest point

44 Growing Inwards, Not Upwards Internal growth is more valuable than external growth

12 Living in a Constant State of Anxiety Refusing to allow anxiety to disrupt life + motherhood 16 My Retirement Watch Losing a watch in the mountains led to a new friendship 20 Navigating Singleness with Gratitude Embracing being alone without desperately seeking a relationship 24 Comfort Zone Be Damned A trip to the ER one dreary morning led to a new diagnosis 28 Self-Portraiture as Self-Care A personal project of documenting pregnancy + postpartum experiences 38 Out of the Fog What makes a home isn’t the structure itself 40 Room to Grow Change and upheaval can lead to beautiful growth

46 Growing Pains Parenting tweens in the technology age 52 A More Mindful Life An interview with Megan Jedlinski on body image, mothering, and living a more sustainable life

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76 Growing Up Leaving a broken home was the only way to grow 78 Life After Hysterectomy The highs and lows of a total hysterectomy at age 34 80 Cultivating Your Personal Garden Just like a garden needs regular tending and care, so do we

58 Out Loud Embracing growth after a crosscountry move

82 A Lesson in Minding My Own Business The challenges + joys of growing up with your special needs child

60 Knitting in the Now Each stitch and fiber is a reminder that we’re a work in progress

84 My Velvet Rope From being a pushover to a woman who stands her ground

62 Marriage, Realistically The trials of the first year of marriage

86 Growth Through Divorce Outgrowing marriage and the decision to walk away

64 Lessons Learned Celebrating a grandson’s reading growth

90 Becoming My Own Bully Loving yourself is an everyday battle

66 Leaving Home, Coming Home Seeing home through a new lens of growth

92 The Power to Just Be Lessons learned from a sober January

70 Timeless Beauty Why aging shouldn’t scare you and how to embrace it

94 In Recovery Drinking was the poison and the cure - for a time 3

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

MIA SUTTON, Music Mia is a self-proclaimed word nerd. As a writer, blogger, and poet, she believes that words are our greatest treasure. She lives in Virginia with her husband and two sons. mia-sutton.com

CHRISTINE AMOROSO Writer Christine recently traded her role as elementary school principal, and her home in southern California, for a chance to live and write in Italy. She actively seeks opportunities to learn and grow, both personally and professionally. Her stories reflect her personal journey, opening her heart and mind to adventure and endless possibilities.

Barenakedinpublic.com SAMI ROSS, Writer Sami is a Chicago-based copywriter by day and Creative by night. Outside of her writing career, she likes to express her creativity through her yoga practice, and is working towards her teacher certification.

Currently, her favorite word is erleichda- a Tom Robbin’s creation that means “lighten up.” shross.com

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Issue Contributors Amber Adrian Writer Leaving Home, Coming Home alternativegrace.com

Holly Tucci Writer Cultivating Your Personal Garden VibrantLivingFromTheHeart.com

Mia Sutton Writer The List : Listen mia-sutton.com

Amy Cook Writer The List : Read Growth Through Divorce instagram.com/amy1939

Jeanette Grzesik Writer My Retirement Watch

Molly Flinkman Writer Room to Grow mollyflinkman.com

Andea Beims Writer Timeless Beauty instagram.com/hive_home Anna Kat Napier Writer Rising From the Ashes of Bankruptcy twitter.com/annakatnapier Cara Stolen Writer Out of the Fog carastolen.wordpress.com Christine Amoroso Writer, Photographer Lessons Learned barenakedinpublic.com Christine Carpenter Writer Knitting in the Now cabernetandclarity.blogspot.com Devon Johnson Writer Out Loud whilstmagazine.com Erica Musyt Writer The List : Watch instagram.com/1hotredhd Eunice Brownlee Writer My Velvet Rope euniceann.com Francine Diodati Writer, Photographer A Lesson in Minding My Own Business instagram.com/franscenes

Jessica Collins Photography Photographer Timeless Beauty jessicacollins.photography Jo-Anne Neufeld Writer Growing Pains joneufeld.wordpress.com Joshua Hanford Photographer Life After Hysterectomy Katia Navarro Alamรกn Writer Becoming My Own Bully Katrina Byrd Writer Comfort Zone Be Damned facebook.com/boaflouncer Katy Post Writer Marriage, Realistically instagram.com/petite.posts Kristine Campbell Photographer A More Mindful Life kristinecampbell.com Laura Connell Writer In Recovery laurakconnell.com/blog Mallory Lehenbauer Writer Growing Up mallorylehenbauer.com

Nicole Ohman Writer Life After Hysterectomy instagram.com/OhmanFoodAdventures Nicole Renee Jordan Writer Navigating Singleness with Gratitude halfwrittenstory.com Paige Babilla Photographer Cover, A More Mindful Life paigebabilla.com Rebecca Padgett Writer Growing Inwards, Not Upwards instagram.com/rebeccapadgett_

Roxana Alexandru Writer Living in a Constant State of Anxiety honestrox.com

Sami Ross Writer The Power to Just Be shross.com Shea Kluender Writer, Photographer Self-Portraiture As Self-Care truemamaphotography.com Zan Frett Photographer Growing Inwards, Not Upwards

Megan Jedlinski Writer A More Mindful Life meganjedlinski.com

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Editor’s Note I can’t believe I’m about to type these words, but this is the last print issue of Holl & Lane Magazine. After 20 issues filled with emotional, powerful, heartbreakingly beautiful stories, it’s time for us to say goodbye.

But, only sort of. You see, the theme Growth is especially fitting for us right now. Because though the magazine itself is going away, the community and spirit behind our mission is only beginning.

Four years ago I had this idea that I wanted a safe space for women to share their real lives. I wanted to be able to say out loud what we were really feeling and thinking. I wanted there to be a place of no-judgement that women could flock to when they were in need of support. And I have found so much more than that within Holl & Lane.

It has grown to be more than I could ever have anticipated when I created issue one and I will forever be grateful for this path it has put me on, one that has allowed me to find what I was put on this earth for.

The thing is, my goal has always been to reach women, where they are, to let them know they’re not alone. Period. End of story. That’s all I wanted. I never intended for this to be a business, or my life’s work. But that is what it has become. And I’m really, really proud of how far we’ve come.

But now it’s time to get back to our roots. I want to be able to provide these important stories to women around the world, no matter if they can afford them or not. And so, we’ll be making a shift - a growth. Holl & Lane will still exist, it’ll just be entirely online. This shift will allow me to focus on what’s important to us - sharing YOUR powerful stories. Without the financial burden of a print magazine (full disclosure: there are virtually no independent print magazines that make a profit, and that includes us - we rarely even break even), we’ll be able to do bigger and better things that our readers have asked us for for years. What are those things? Stay tuned to find out, but let’s just say it’s all about that community.

We have created something incredibly special with Holl & Lane. And no matter what shape it takes on in the future, I can promise you one thing: the family of women from all walks of life from all over the world will always be here ready to provide you with a shoulder to lean on and a helping hand. We want to be your lifeline. And when it comes to that, we aren’t going anywhere.

Until we meet again, Sarah Hartley Editor in Chief

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growth the process of developing or maturing physically, mentally, or spiritually

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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 MIA SUTTON

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READ CRINGEWORTHY: A THEORY OF AWKWARDNESS

by Melissa Dahl

BIG MAGIC: CREATIVE LIVING BEYOND FEAR

by Elizabeth Gilbert

JONATHAN LIVINGSTON SEAGULL

by Richard Bach

This fantastically delightful book walks you through life’s most horribly embarrassing moments (think spinach in your teeth on a first date or a wardrobe malfunction on prom night) and teaches us how we can embrace them and turn them into moments of incredible growth. That we should look for those awkward moments and instead of cringing, use them to our advantage and power through them to find the lesson. Witty and fun, Cringeworthy will have you grateful the embarrassing moments weren’t you, and then wishing that they were.

Another self-help book in the Growth Issue? Yes, but this one is SO. MUCH. MORE. This book teaches us that creativity can come in all shapes and sizes, and your muse does not have to steer you to the painting aisle of your local hobby shop. There is creative magic within each of us just waiting to be explored. Want to grow in your creativity? Gilbert enlightens the reader by sharing it is not to be found by getting a fancy degree, or finding your audience or even getting permission to be creative.

No, it all begins with us. Find what your creative passion is and chase it. Magical things will happen if we allow ourselves carte blanche to stop waiting and act now!

A classic in its own right, this spins the tale of a young seagull trying to forge his own way into the world, even if it means defying the odds and the flock he was born into.

When he realizes that the only way for him to pursue his passion and grow is to leave the flock and follow his own path, he finds a life, death, and purpose in taking the road less traveled and learning to be happy.

SCHOOL OF ROCK Dewey Finn is kicked out of his rock band and finds himself desperate for a job. He poses as his roommate for a substitute teacher position at a private elementary school, exposing his students to the Rock Gods that he idolizes. As he gets to know his students and their musical ability, revenge against his former bandmates slowly starts to dissipate and helping them reach their musical potential takes over.

THE SECRET LIFE OF WALTER MITTY Walter Mitty, an employee at Life Magazine, lives a very mundane and repetitive life. To escape his monotonous day to day existence, he imagines fantasy worlds where he goes on great adventures. When an important photograph for the final print issue goes missing, Walter is given the chance to go on a real-life mission by the magazine and obtain the perfect image.

TOO CLOSE

by Alex Clare

MY LOVE GROWS DEEPER, PT. 1

by Nelly Furtado

COMEDOWN

by Bush

WAKE ME UP

by Avicii

MAYBE IT’S TIME

by Bradley Cooper

YOU LEARN

by Alanis Morissette

BETTER THAN I USED TO BE

by Tim McGraw

GROWING PAINS

by Alessia Cara

IN THE END

by Linkin Park

WATCH FROZEN Growing up, Princess Elsa always knew she had special powers, but was forbidden by her parents to use them. Upon her 18th birthday, Elsa is faced with an event that brings her powers out in full force. She labels herself an outcast and runs from her kingdom thinking isolation will be better. When her sister, Anna, is in danger, Elsa must make a choice to learn how to conquer the fear of her power and save her sister or to lose her sister forever.

LISTEN

GOOD OLD DAYS

by Macklemore (ft. Kesha) 9

Words by Anna Kat Napier Image by NeONBRAND via Unsplash

Rising From the Ashes of Bankruptcy

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How could this have happened? I have a college degree and have worked within my profession for almost 20 years.

"I don't have the money."

Those words hit me like a ton of bricks. My husband and I had worked for this client for two months and now we weren't going to be paid. We had a contract. I thought we were protected.

My husband and I were finding work and we were finally able to secure a rental house. We were earning just enough to cover our basic bills. How were we ever going to get ahead like this? It seemed hopeless but I remained determined.

We consulted a lawyer who told us this individual had "dissolved" his company and there was nothing we could do.

I continued to lay the foundation for a new dream. This meant moving again and my husband had to move three months before I could because of our lease. My husband crashed with a family member or slept on the floor of a garage we rented. Every day we continued to search for a way to pull ourselves out of financial ruin.

Eight months earlier, my husband and I had scraped together our life savings to move to Florida and launch a business. We were newlyweds and were chasing our dream.

Until we made a connection that would change our lives.

My husband was doing home remodeling as he tried to get a position in construction management. His persistence paid off and he was offered a job as an assistant site supervisor. I'm an interior designer by trade so I launched an eDesign business.

A local business owner was launching a digital magazine.

My husband and I both jumped at the chance to work for him. I would act as Creative Marketing Director and he would be the Advertising Sales Manager. We stopped taking on new clients, making this magazine our sole source of income.

While doing eDesign, I continued to grow my design business to include training courses and design resources. I created products to help other people pursue their design careers. I even developed an online decorating course to teach people the necessary fundamentals of interior design. While creating all these digital tools, I was also writing a novel. I have been working on my novel for the last seven years and really wanted to complete it. As I pounded out the words on my keyboard, I just kept thinking about how many times I've dreamed about becoming a writer. I remembered the Scholastic book fair in elementary school and how it was my favorite day of the year. I eagerly awaited the chance to scoop up as many books as I could.

I secretly hoped that one day I would write books that other people wanted to read.

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When payday came and went, neither of us received a hollandlanemag.com/shop check. We saw our dreams and life savings go straight down I created a website, the magazine layout, sourced photos, conducted interviews, wrote articles, and edited submissions. We even had a ribbon-cutting ceremony.

the tubes. My husband and I scrambled to find other jobs in this small town in Florida and both ended up commuting to larger cities. We worked as many hours as we could to pull ourselves out from under the crushing weight of debt that was bearing down on us.

Despite our efforts, we couldn't get ahead. Defeated, we moved back to our hometown to live with family. When it became clear that we still couldn't get out from the mountain of debt we did something I never thought I would do - we filed for bankruptcy.

I was so ashamed. I had worked since I was 16 with nothing to show for it.

My husband and I didn't tell anyone what was going on.

We were living with his grandparents and we tried to build a small house on the back of their property. The building expenses quickly added up and we had to face the reality that we couldn't make it happen. We were homeless.

Little by little, the novel started to shape up. The story flowed as I was finally able to devote the time to create this work of fiction.

As I re-read the story over and over, I gained confidence in my ability. I have absolutely no training or writing education but the story pushed me forward. Eventually, the novel was completed.

My husband read the book and loved it. I thought he was biased so I recruited some beta readers. Upon receiving their feedback, I knew I had a winner. I made my final edits and I was ready to pitch this baby of mine. I participated in my very first Twitter pitch and received an invitation to send my novel to a publishing company!

I'm still waiting to hear back and I may receive a rejection. If I do, I will still keep going. Rejection and disappointment are a part of life. I have learned that how we move forward is the most important thing we can do for ourselves.

I could have let bankruptcy break me. Instead, I used it as an opportunity to rise from the ashes and chase a new dream.

No matter what I do in life, I'll know I went after my goals.

Sometimes our greatest growth comes from our darkest hour. &

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Words by Roxana Alexandru Image by Callum Skelton via Unsplash

t n a t s n o C a n i Y g T n E i I X Liv N A f o e t a St 12

T

he bang of a firework. The siren of an ambulance. A knock at the door. These seemingly benign sounds for anyone else transport me to the darkest corner of my mind. Each one of these sounds is a straight pang to my heart, with an accompanied panic attack. It wasn't always this way, but a plane ride to Germany in the fall of 2016 messed up all of my synapses so that the transfer of information from one brain cell to another was full of anxious static.

Let’s backtrack to that painful moment when I was short of breath and thought my world was ending. I was exactly four months pregnant when I stepped on a plane to visit my best friend in Germany. See, like any new mom, I knew that my life would be consumed by this new tiny addition to the family, so I wanted to travel before I couldn’t anymore. After having been to over 20 countries on my own, I didn’t think twice about booking my ticket. I envisioned spending the nights away with my best friend, chit-chatting about the future and what it’d be like to go through labor. Something I was terrified of ! What I didn’t envision was that I wouldn’t sleep one minute on a 12-hour trip and that I’d get caught up in a vicious circle of thinking that I’d never get to meet my baby.

The moment the plane departed was the moment I broke down in inconsolable tears. I was flying to Paris, and during that time in 2016, there had been some terror attacks in France and Germany. The first thought that came to mind was that the plane would crash, ending all my hopes and dreams of meeting my baby. The second thought was that I’d be unlucky enough to end up in a terror attack at the Paris airport while waiting for my connection. The third thought was that, were I lucky enough to make it to Germany, I’d meet my end at a Christmas market.

These thoughts kept me up and kept the tears rolling down my face.

I felt wave after wave of panic attacks at the lack of control I felt.

Strapped to a chair, twenty thousand feet up high in the air, I only imagined my end. Thankfully I made it to Germany in one piece, and then back. Except I was now a completely different person. I’ll be honest and tell you that a week after I got back, there was a terror attack at a Christmas market in Germany – and all I could do was imagine myself there.

As my pregnancy progressed, the feelings I felt on that plane lingered, but I tried to suppress them deep down. Unfortunately, they were brought up to the surface with a vengeance the moment I got a call at 10:00 p.m. from my doctor, 10 days before my baby was due. Cue, panic attack. The words Cholestasis and stillbirth were ringing in my ears as we made our way to the hospital. Once there, I felt like I was in that plane again, losing control of my own destiny. Everything I’d imagined my birth to be, came crashing down. The idea of having a natural birth was thrown straight out the window. I was induced, and after 36 hours of labor, I ended up having an emergency C-Section. ›››

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A wave of guilt washed over me. “I can’t even have a natural birth, what kind of mom am I?” I thought to myself. I was so angry and frustrated that I couldn’t even look at my son. I wanted a do-over. While I was struggling with that guilt, a new setback hit me immediately. My baby was not latching properly. I was in so much pain from trying to breastfeed him. My nipples were split open, bleeding without mercy.

The first night in our own home, I broke down crying on my knees and told my husband I was already a bad mom for having to feed my baby formula. That was the breaking point for me because not only did I fail to have a natural birth, but I didn’t have what it takes to feed my baby. I pushed through in the next couple of weeks and managed to successfully breastfeed.

As my maternity leave ended, anxiety had officially taken control of me. Out of nowhere, I was paralyzed. I was too scared to go to work or to drop off my kid at daycare, lest an active shooter would lurk around the trees. My anxiety reached sky-high levels due to the massive amount of time I spent reading the news, watching the news, and imagining that I was on the news.

Every shooting, every car accident, every plane crash felt like it happened to me or to my family. I broke down in tears daily and wondered if all moms felt this sickening feeling in their stomach every second. I even stopped walking the neighborhood at a certain time of day. I literally stopped living, and that’s what killed me.

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After eight months, Ithe had to dowhole something because we booked our first international trip, and I was terrified to step foot on another plane. I knewpurchase that wasn’t a reality for meit because I loved to travel too much to Click here to from our shop. stop. I had to overcome these irrational thoughts that consumed me, so I went to see a therapist. The sessions helped me tremendously to hollandlanemag.com/shop the point where we’ve taken our son to five different countries in the past year. While the anxiety is a constant companion that tags along wherever I go, I’m living my life to the fullest extent possible, because I know that the alternative is not acceptable.

It’s been three years now since that fateful day on the plane and the growth I’ve experienced has been tremendous. I’ve channeled all my worries and anxieties into a passion project that keeps my mind focused, on top of having a full-time job. I work on my mental health through self-care rituals. It’s a constant battle that I’m internally facing, but I know that I’m not alone. I know that every mom out there worries and hugs their kid just a little bit tighter every night, knowing that the worst could come to fruition the next day. I’ve let go of the mom guilt and I remind myself every day that I’m doing the best I can for my son, even though I may not meet my own expectations. I’m finally at peace with my birth experience and the struggles I had to overcome.

Living in a world that’s riddled with uncertainty, I’ve found peace in being mindful of the present, of putting down my phone when my son is home, and of keeping those dark thoughts at bay.

The bang of a firework. The siren of an ambulance. A knock on the door. I’ve grown to override these noises with each passing day because if there’s one thing that I want more than anything, it’s for my son to see his mom as fearless. &

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My Retirement Watch

Words & Images by Jeanette Grzesik

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I

thought my backpacking days were over after my neck was severely injured in a car accident eight years ago. My neurosurgeon said I was rather lucky to be alive, let alone able to walk, and I had better schedule surgery before my luck runs out. I had lived with a constant headache and pain in my arms and hands for months since the accident, but no one ever said I was teetering on the edge of life! It was sad to think about giving up backpacking, since I grew up camping, hiking, and backpacking in the Sierras, but if that was my only loss after a neck injury, I could consider myself blessed.

My husband and I used to attempt to carry enough food for gourmet cooking in the mountains when we went backpacking because neither of us could stand the freezedried options that more reasonable hikers carried. The beautiful meals we created were the envy of the other backpackers nearby with their tasteless entrees until it was time to haul out all the trash. We had a lot to carry! My children complained a lot during their childhood family backpacking trips but since then, they have returned to the mountains to enjoy hiking in their adulthood. Those forced childhood experiences did have a positive impact after all!

My friend, Erica, knew about my history in the mountains and insisted that I try to visit the High Sierras again. Erica is young and strong and an expert hiker. She promised to help me prepare and she desperately wanted me to get back into the mountains away from the stress and noise of the city. She regularly showed me her serene photos of secluded sites near mountain lakes and I could imagine the silence, the smell of the pines, and the brilliant display of stars at night. We gathered a group of hardy women together and called ourselves "The Women of the Decades" since we represented 30s, 40s, 50s, and me, in my 60s. Yes, I was the oldest member of the group.

I had just announced my retirement. I had worked full time in a profession I loved for over 38 years, but I knew that the wear and tear of the job was starting to take a toll and I believe that when you work with children, they deserve your best every day. Years ago, when I began my career, I told myself that if I was still in the educational biz at age 61 and a half, I was allowed to consider retiring. It took me months to actually make the decision, but once I did, I went out and bought myself an iWatch to celebrate. I mean really, no one gives you a gold watch when you retire anymore, so I had to buy a watch for myself. I was super excited to use my new watch for "The Women of the Decades" trip. I could monitor my heart rate, track our progress, and even tell the time of day with this watch! Unfortunately, though, an iWatch requires charging with a specially designed Apple charger. One mile into the hike my battery died and the iWatch was no longer any help and on top of all this, I didn't bring that specially designed Apple charger with me. My brand-new retirement iWatch was worth absolutely nothing at that point. It couldn't monitor my heart, track

our progress, or even tell time anymore! I had to do all of this for myself. So, I tucked the watch safely away in my secret backpack pocket with emergency cash, credit card, driver's license, and my glasses case. But let me rephrase the "safely away" part, since I was to learn later, I lost my brand-new, very sentimental retirement watch gift to myself in the High Sierra backcountry beside a gorgeous glacier lake at 9,000 feet.

I did learn on the first few miles of the trail, that I stopped suddenly in my tracks every time my heart rate hit a certain number, unable to move forward until my heart settled back down. My co-hikers had to keep a careful watch, since my stops were so sudden that they crashed into me a few times. After a minute or two, I was able to move forward, although slowly. Rather than complain, my gracious friends thanked me for the brief "rest" stop. My sister-in-law, the 50-something member of the group, demonstrated the uncanny ability to ignore pain, fatigue, rapid heartbeat, and all the other pleasures of backpacking in order to get out of the sun for her breaks. When everyone else crashed into me at my on-the-spot breaks, she marched in her determined manner straight to the nearest shade spot, adopted a jaunty little pose and smiled sweetly as the rest of us caught up with her. My sister-in-law is a wonderful woman, but at those moments, the word "bitch" came to mind.

We had an incredible time in the backcountry, stopping for lunch along the river with our sore, swollen feet in the water, throwing off almost all of our clothing in order to swim in a chilly mountain lake and drinking wine while watching the darkness descend all around us each night.

Wine is an essential that we knew to carry plenty of even if other essentials would have to be reduced since it solves a lot of issues related to sore feet, aching shoulders, and the other discomforts of a backpack trip. We laughed at the chipmunks who stole bits of our food, told intimate personal stories, and provided support to each other in the challenging patches of the trail. I learned more about the Women of the Decades on that trip than I ever would have otherwise. We all agreed that "What happens in the Sierras, stays in the Sierras, specifically at Green Lake." I mean, right??? Uh, forget about the part where we removed our clothing by the chilly mountain lake….

On the way down the mountain we talked to many hikers headed up the trail. Hikers are friendly people, so we had several little conversations about where the different groups were headed. One group was headed to Fourth Lake, but we encouraged them to consider our favorite spot at First Lake, since it was such a delightful place for a group to camp and most hikers passed it by. They politely thanked us for the tip, but headed on up the mountain, determined to make it to Fourth Lake. You'll notice the strikingly original names of the lakes in the area, "First, Second, Third”, etc. ›››

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Upon arriving home, and unpacking, I found everything in its place except for my retirement watch. I examined every nook and cranny of the backpack, every pocket of every item of clothing and asked my friends to search their things as well. My watch was not to be found. Erica made inquiries about the watch at the Lodge where we stopped for a quick break before driving down the mountain, and the Bishop Ranger station where we retrieved our permits. No watch had been turned in at either place. However unlikely it was that my watch would be found, I was still hugely disappointed. It was my own special gift that carried my dreams for an adventure-filled retirement. It represented the intensity of the angst I felt about deciding to retire. It was how I honored myself upon retirement! Plus, it cost a lot of money!

A few weeks later, on my last day of work, my colleagues walked me out of my office for photos and then we took off for a few celebratory drinks. What happened next still fills me with wonder and a new appreciation of the kindness of others. Erica handed me a large, cardboard mailing envelope to open. Inside the envelope was my watch, wrapped carefully in a black box with a note from a very spiritual woman hiker named Jane who didn't make it to Fourth Lake after all. One of the members of her group became ill, so they stopped at First Lake to camp for the night. Jane found my watch lodged between two rocks, most likely below the spot where I hung my pack. Maybe several glasses of wine each night at high altitude did impact my judgement after all!

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Upon her return to civilization, Jane called the Apple Store thinking that they would be able to connect her to hollandlanemag.com/shop the owner of the watch, but they were no help. She had absolutely no information about me, but she repeatedly called the Forest Service hoping that someone would pick up the phone because they did not have voicemail. Finally, out of desperation, she demanded that God help her since she was trying to do the right thing and God knew the owner of the watch and where she lived. Jane believed that the watch belonged to one of the "Women of the Decades" that she had met on her way up the mountain. Her next effort resulted in a response from the Forest Service on the first ring that Jane described as "immediate free download" only better. The Forest Service had kept Erica's number to give to Jane. She packed my watch ever so carefully in butterfly fabric, tucked it into the black box, placed it into an envelope and sent it to me via Erica. Inside the envelope was a note, “This watch is your proof that nothing in this world is ever truly lost. Remember this always!”

Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost, No birth, identity, form—no object of the world.

Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing; Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere confuse thy brain.

Ample are time and space—ample the fields of Nature.

The body, sluggish, aged, cold—the embers left from earlier fires, The light in the eye grown dim, shall duly flame again; The sun now low in the west rises for mornings and for noons continual; To frozen clods ever the spring's invisible law returns, With grass and flowers and summer fruits and corn.

I sincerely appreciated Jane's persistent efforts on my behalf, but I had no idea what that statement meant! I mean really, I've lost socks, keys, and sometimes important people in my life. I pondered the statement over and over. Finally, I looked it up and discovered that it is a line from a Walt Whitman poem. Not knowing this certainly is a reflection on the quality of my high school education…

Jane did not know about my accident, my recovery from surgery, and my first steps back into the backpacking world. She did not know that the watch was a sentimental retirement gift to myself. She did know that she had to find the owner of the watch for some reason that persisted. She stated in a letter a few weeks later that the watch was actually "fully charged!" As Jane held my watch, she could feel the

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She guessed that the watch belonged to one of the "Women of the Decades" that she met on her hike up the mountain and that it was her job to find the owner and return the watch.

and I will see him again." Jane's losses have set her course toward "hope of things to come" in a mighty way. Just like I couldn't see my lost watch until Jane returned it, Jane is waiting for that future moment when her son is once again visible to her. She just can't see him….yet.

I pondered the line from the poem, "Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost" over and over wondering what Jane meant. Months later, I still did not have my answer. I asked friends what they thought, I read and re-read the poem. I just couldn't get it! Then one day a friend suggested, "Why don't you just ask Jane what she meant?" Duh….

Through my lost retirement watch, I have met a woman of faith, hope, and love who continues to provide inspiration to me from a distance. I have met a storyteller whose words generate hope in the future and faith in the goodness of people and I am so very thankful for this budding friendship. I’m thankful for the delightful women of the decades who inspired the trip and the laughs and the stories I'm not going to tell right now. I’m thankful that in spite of my slow speed up the mountain, I was able to complete that hike into the wilderness and that I’m stronger than I thought I was.

I dashed off a quick email to Jane. She responded almost immediately. Jane has stories to tell about lost and found items! Sadly though, Jane's losses include her young son. "Nothing is ever lost in the universe; we just cannot always see it. That goes for your watch, and that goes for my son's precious soul. He is somewhere in the Universe

And yes, I’m thankful to have my retirement watch back. &

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Navigating Singleness with Gratitude Words by Nicole Renee Jordan Image by Annie Spratt via Unsplash

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’m a girl that attaches, always feeling the need to be in a relationship and without one it was hard for me to feel secure. I never knew how loneliness can put a whole new spin on the capacity of one's faith or how it can make the longing for any kind of connection brutally hard to turn down. I could go on about my slew of past boyfriends or my failed marriage.

I could tell you all the details about diving into another relationship after I got divorced, but I’m going to do myself a favor (and you), and stay away from replaying the past and refuse to give it the satisfaction of my attention any longer. The need to know myself finally outweighed the desire to intertwine my insecurities in relationships that I wasn’t truly ready to grow in. It was a scary yet incredibly beautiful place to be, but I can only see that now.

Since my journey into the unknown of singleness, I have found a safe place within myself but it took a lot of growing pains to get there. At first, learning to be secure without latching on to someone else caused all sorts of panic and alarms going off internally.

But my mission needed to persevere, I had to know I was enough to find happiness on my own. During this season, I became acutely self-aware which drove me to experience even more anxiety than I was used to, and the panic made it a hundred times harder to not cling to any guy who was interested in me, or worse run back to an ex. It took a lot of courage to set boundaries, but learning to focus on what is tangible gave me tools to use my heightened self-awareness to my advantage. There is something grounding about focusing on fundamental things and that is what I began to do. ›››

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Each day it became a goal to gravitate towards something calming or hopeful rather than let my mood shift to its default of self-pity, fear, and defeat. And to do this I honed in on the the simple blessings of our human anatomy sight, smell, taste, touch, and hearing. Menial everyday occurrences would become opportunities for growth as I became deliberate about noticing my basic senses. Whenever I would go outside I cultivated a intentional mindset of noticing and taking in creation. On lonely days, I would pet my dog, tuning into my sense of touch, thankful for her cozy fur and comfort. Whenever I would try a new food, I would really savor it and allow myself to get lost in the taste. Over time, gratefulness for these simple things usually taken for granted started to overcome the constant yearning for more. I was fully present and not stressing about what was to come or if I would ever have a lasting love. A sweet confidence began to bloom within my soul, realizing it is so powerful just being me- a girl with hands, feet, and all my senses. Choosing to focus on the basics was like viewing life through a filter of simplicity that was like sunshine for my soul. For the first time in a long time I didn’t long for somebody but rather longed to do more with what I had.

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Click here to purchase it from shop. weourdo, how hollandlanemag.com/shop we view life, and the choices we make.

Emotions that had grown dormant from bouncing back and forth in relationships started to resurface. It became abundantly clear I never allowed myself to sow in sorrow and anger to reap healing. But this new sense of awareness was a rich salve to my wounds and excitement began to move through my veins again. I delved into new growth and explored ways to continue discovering myself - cooking classes, going to museums, exploring nature, reading new books, and whispering meaningful prayers began to fill up the spaces of time I would normally fill with relationships.

Emotions were raw, sometimes painfully open and aching as I learned to pry myself away from the neediness or approval of a relationship. In the hardest moments, I would tune into thankfulness- it was hard but with time it became easier. I was thankful to feel and to understand the depth that my heart could love.

I used to believe that things would happen with time, that they will fall into place. But as I have learned to find security within, I have found that the pursuit of what we desire is a necessity. We have to be courageous with what we do, how we view life, and the choices we make. Getting in touch with my senses humbly helped me to see I am strong- that I can keep moving even if sometimes I may stumble. And there may be times that the only thing I taste are the tears streaming down my face, but it’s okay because they sustain me.

I now want nothing less than to pursue a full life that allows me to bloom in curiosity and knowledge. With wide eyes, open hands, and a happy spirit - my senses attuned to the wonder of life I have found beauty in the gift of being. I’m now hopeful for love, the kind that grows from gratefulness. &

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Words by Katrina Byrd Image by Christopher Boswell via Unsplash

COMFORT ZONE BE DAMNED 24

“I need to see a doctor,” I said to the emergency room security guard on a dreary November morning in 2016.

He pointed to a small cubicle where a dark-haired woman sat behind a computer monitor. Dizzy and unable to take a deep breath, I approached the woman.

an uncontrolled type two diabetic. I scored 11.1 on the A1c test. A1c is a standard test used to assess glucose levels. It reflects average glucose over three months and doctors use it as an indicator of a patient’s risk for complications. The standard goal for diabetics is an A1c of seven.

“Name?” She said after I sat on the metal stool in front of her.

During my hospital stay, doctors advised me to cut back on sodas and sweets. “I don’t drink sodas,” I said to one tall bearded doctor named Flowers.

“Katrina,” I said. “I’m dizzy, and I can’t breathe.”

“Follow me.” Her chair squeaked as she got to her feet. By the time I stood, she was at a desk at the end of the hall talking with a blonde woman in gray scrubs. I stumbled forward clutching my chest. The ivory walls swayed as I moved forward struggling to maintain my balance. My stomach did flip flops. Nausea crept into the back of my throat. When I approached the women, the blonde took my hand.

“Right here, sweetheart.” She led me into a small room at the end of the hall then helped me onto the bed. People in colorful scrubs rushed into the room. Machines whined and buzzed. Snapping latex gloves assailed my ears.

Anxious voices surrounded me.

“Get her shirt off.” “We’re gonna put this blood pressure cuff on you, honey.” “I’m gonna put this gown on you, sugar.” “Get an IV started.” “Get a heart monitor in here!”

“A small stick, sweetie,” the blonde said. She knelt on my right.

“OUCH!” I sat upright. A gentle push and I was flat on my back again.

“337!” The blonde said.

Everyone looked at the blonde then at me. My heart pounded in my chest. Later I learned 337 indicated I was

“The diabetic nurse will be in to explain everything to you,” he said.

A few hours later, the diabetic nurse arrived. She gave me a diabetic packet which gave general information on diabetes’ management.

“You can have toast and jelly for breakfast,” the nurse said.

“Just as long as you exercise.” She gave me a quick overview on how to administer insulin then she listed recipes which consisted primarily of canned and prepackaged ingredients.

“I cook from scratch.”

“You’ll have to come up with some recipes you can prepare quicker.”

“I have vegetables growing in my yard.” I showed her pictures on my phone.

“It’s okay to buy pre-packaged food,” she said. “I do it all the time.” When I wouldn’t agree with her recommendation, the nurse left the room frustrated.

The nurse and the doctors told me all foods, even the “healthy” ones, have carbs. No one explained that blood sugar fluctuates, stress impacts glucose, and taking responsibility for my type two diabetes would be an uphill battle that would rip me from my comfort zone like a bandaid ripped from a raw sore. ›››

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Three months after diagnosis my fasting blood sugars were consistently below 120. Each day I checked my blood sugar once a day, and I took two blood pressure pills, and 46 units of Lantus Long Acting insulin. I also followed the Americans with Diabetes Association’s “everything in moderation” motto. After lunch one day I felt ill. I checked my blood sugar. I couldn't believe it was 252. My fasting blood glucose was only 75, and all I’d eaten was a chef salad topped with three lightly battered fried green tomatoes. Concerned, I spoke with my doctor at my next appointment.

“I want to start checking my blood sugar before and after meals,” I said.

“Just check your fasting numbers,” she said.

“But my sugar goes up pretty bad after meals.”

“Just fasting.” She gave me a stern look then ended the conversation. Her actions were a sharp contrast to her “you could lose a foot” speech I received at diagnosis.

Testing in the mornings only provided me with glucose readings after twelve hours of not eating. Testing before a meal gave me a starting point. Testing one hour after a meal showed me how much my glucose rose as a result of the foods I’d just eaten — testing two hours after a meal showed whether my glucose returned to the before meal level. With this information, I learned which foods caused glucose spikes.

glucose testing method overwhelmed me. It was challenging to fit the rigorous testing into my day, and my fingers were bruised and sore. I spoke with my doctor about getting a Dexcom Continuous Glucose Monitoring system which would minimize daily finger sticks.

“You don’t meet the qualifications,” she said. “Your blood sugar is controlled.”

Though continuous glucose monitoring brought my glucose within the normal range, I was too well so the insurance company wouldn’t allow the device.

“If you want it,” my doctor said, “You’ll have to pay for it out of pocket.”

When she refused to offer guidance on finding a cheaper continuous glucose monitoring system, I found another doctor. At my first visit to the new doctor, my A1c was still 4.9.

“You’re normal,” the doctor said.

“If I start back eating carbs, my blood sugar will rise drastically.” She agreed then prescribed the FreeStyle Libre Glucose Monitoring System. By June 27, 2018, I became a diet controlled diabetic. However, when I arrived at my next appointment, I was terrified.

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Nervous and afraid tohere go against my doctor’s instructions, “Oh myit God!” my doctor said looking at my bleeding hand.

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I started testing before and after each meal, fasting and at The wound stretched from the base of my palm to the tip of bedtime. What I found concerned me. Though my fasting my finger. “What happened?” hollandlanemag.com/shop blood sugar was in range, my post meal sugars were still uncontrolled. After meals, my glucose spiked at least 100 points then dropped thus causing a roller coaster effect.

Though I learned valuable information and was able to adjust my diet thus lowering my blood sugar levels, this method of testing came at a price. Because my doctor didn’t support my testing methods, I purchased the additional test strips out of pocket. Typically, glucose test strips run one dollar per strip. I tested ten times a day.

By my next doctor’s visit, my a1c was down to 6.3. As I continued testing, focusing on diet, and exercising, I realized much of the information I received at diagnosis wouldn’t help me become med free. With my lifestyle change, I saw how food impacted my blood sugar as well as how it was affected by stress. A meal of sausage and eggs eaten at home resulted in a ten-point rise in my glucose.

The same meal eaten during a business trip where I was nervous, caused a 60-point rise in blood glucose.

By December 2017, my A1c was 4.9, I lost thirty pounds, and I was using fifteen units of long-acting insulin. The start of 2018, however, brought much stress, including writing my MFA thesis (a 250-page novel), taking on the most significant job of my writing career, and dealing with unexpected illnesses and deaths of friends and family. My 26

“My kitty scratched me last night.”

“You’re gonna need stitches.” She leaned in for a closer look as she listed possible next steps; “…a hand specialist… surgery…” She took one more look at the gaping hole then said, “I’m going to get Dr. LaDuff.” When she returned with Dr. LaDuff, he looked at my hand closely.

“It’s healing already,” he said. “See.” He pointed to spots on my palm. “It’s already scabbing over.”

Relieved, I left the doctor’s office with an antibiotics prescription and instructions to call her if the wound worsens.

At diagnosis, I thought medicine was my only option. After joining the Type 2 Diabetes Support Group on Facebook, I found I could have normalized blood sugars which meant less medicine, more energy, and no spikes after meals. Early in my diagnosis, I set my goals, communicated them to my doctor and adopted a daily routine for achieving them.

Glucose monitoring, selecting low carb foods, exercising, and taking medicine was inconvenient. But I am worth it. &

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Self-Portraiture As Self-Care 28

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his is a story about self-portraiture, but it’s not really about me. This is a story about using photography as a tool for taking care of my tender heart - raw and unsettled in motherhood - although it’s not really about the pictures. This is a story about practicing gratitude and grace, and how I found the deep and unlimited power of community.

It began in the depths of a dark December, when I thought I had the flu but learned I was ten weeks pregnant with my third child. I felt so resistant to the news; I loved this baby, but to be honest, I didn’t feel worthy of her. I didn’t feel like I deserved the gift, and I had no idea what to do with those feelings. I didn’t know how to talk about it without tearing up and looking away from the few people close enough to ask how I was doing and really listen. Everywhere I turned, I was met with tired, cliche depictions of maternity, all too surface-level for me to connect with. I felt jagged, a little ashamed, reckless, and tired, so very tired. Despite adoring my children and believing heartily in my work as a photographer and educator, I felt like I was disappearing and motherhood was swallowing me whole.

During that time of retreat, I stumbled upon a weekly selfportraiture group that was forming online, and I asked to join it. I was recalibrating everything from gathering baby gear I’d happily given away to redefining my career goals and needed something to steady me. Compelled to create something that would help me work through my heavy cloud, I held my camera with tears in my eyes and turned the lens around, unsure what I would find, but hungry to find something true.

Whenever I photograph my subjects, my heart opens and looks upon them with a special tenderness, appreciating all the details, textures and story within. It was a completely unfamiliar experience to begin to look upon myself with the same amount of grace. This is where the healing and growth took root. The reason why I am drawn to documentary-style photography is that I feel the need to ask the question “Am I OK?” through this motherhood experience (over and over again) and look for the honesty of others for validation and strength. In turning to selfportraiture, I was asking this question directly to myself and listening for the answer.

Words & Images by Shea Kluender

So week after week, I tried to speak honestly about the complexity of emotions I was riding, making frames of my growing belly and changing form. The more vulnerable I pushed myself to be, the more I was met with support and resilience from others. I began to feel empowered - strong, even - and much less alone.

I was peeling back the soft yet frazzled outer layer that’s so easy to generalize and dismiss as motherhood. My stories seemed to matter. And women began sharing their truths in return. ›››

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Self-portraiture was becoming an exercise in gratitude and offering repeated lessons in paying attention.

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My frames were never complicated. I used simple gear, and only spent a few minutes a week trying out a few frames and cleanly editing them. They were almost always taken in my home, using light, lines, and forms that were part of my daily life. My favorite images were ones I didn’t plan ahead of time, they just emerged from saving sacred space to make art and follow my gut. I set the camera up when I was crying or reeling from an accidental bloody lip from my toddler. I captured myself laughing out loud, and laying around with the heaviness of my swollen belly. I wanted to tell the whole story. There was something so unique about this chapter in my life - the physicality of the struggle was begging to be documented. I wanted to step back and really see myself - I wanted to show my stretch marks, puffy eyes, and soft muscles directly for what they were - my very real, full, and beautiful life experience is valid.

Self-portraiture was becoming an exercise in gratitude and offering repeated lessons in paying attention. As my body stretched and grew, I began to look forward to my weekly ritual of asking what parts of me needed to be tended to, what layers of my voice held the most truth. Somewhere along the way, I recommitted to my life as it was. I began to think less about what others would think of what I made, and began to make self-portraits as therapy - just for me. I took more and more photographs that I didn’t share; they felt like little intimate gifts to hold close to my heart. I wasn’t invisible any more.

Then, on a rare foggy day in late July, I gave birth to a healthy little girl - the best surprise of my life. My portrait work continued through the second half of the year, often including her in documenting my postpartum experience. It felt so satisfying to name the fog in my head and ache of my back, to transform the postpartum experience from an overwhelming blur of days and nights to an art form and conversation starter to build a beloved community.

Over time, I wondered more and more about the stories of other mothers of young children. Could others benefit from a space to process the intense and overwhelming experience of motherhood through self-portraiture? I invited other women I knew who were in a similar stage of life. Each week, I offer a theme for reflection, we share our responses through stories and photographs, and then we name the beauty and relevance we see in each other’s work. In doing so, I like to imagine it’s creating a ripple effect of hope and strength through all of our families and communities.

This self-portrait group has been another incredible and unexpected gift in my life. It has been my humble privilege to bear witness to others as they heal and grow. Together we have endured loss, celebrated birth, held hands through illness and medical diagnosis, and found deep inspiration in the way we each view and document motherhood in new and meaningful ways. Their stories of resilience have brought me to my knees. I find myself growing stronger through our collective voice. Each of their experiences are valid and important, and so is mine. I couldn’t have said that with confidence before this work began. The invisible work of motherhood has been made visible. It’s a work in progress; it’s already a masterpiece.

Thank you for attending to my story. I know you’ve got many of your own, and I’d love to continue the conversation with you. Feel free to reach out to learn more about developing your own intentional self-portrait project as a tool for self-care. I believe any attempt we make to share our voice is a noble cause, and I would love to link arms and grow with you in the revolution. &

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Words by Cara Stolen Image by Paul Hanaoka via Unsplash

Out of the Fog 38

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’m loading the dishwasher when I notice the reflective glare of sunlight off our neighbor’s windshield as she comes up the driveway. Through the permanent haze on the outside of our kitchen window, I watch her approach, my dread increasing with every turn of her tires. I hate when people come to our house. Even when they’re invited, and here to babysit my kids.

She knocks on the front door, and I take a deep breath before swinging it open. I wince at the ear-piercing squeak of the door’s hinges and gesture for her and her daughter to come inside.

“Thank you for coming!” I say.

“Oh, it’s our pleasure,” she replies, looking around. “Cara, I just love your house. I was telling someone the other day about how beautiful it is, and how much work you guys have done to it! It’s so much nicer than ours.”

I bite my lip, uncomfortable with her compliment.

“Thanks. We’re making progress, that’s for sure, but the outside still needs an awful lot of work.”

Twenty minutes later, I pull out of the driveway. Glancing in my rear-view mirror, I catch sight of our brown and yellow house, with its ramshackle porch and nonexistent yard, and sigh.

“The SUUUUUN!” My son shouts from the backseat, and I grin, my feelings echoing his exactly. &&& I’ve spent a lot of time hating our house. Resenting our house. Apologizing for our house. Often, to people who didn’t ask, and definitely don’t care. The UPS driver, our neighbors, even friends and family. I say things like, “The inside is a lot nicer than the outside, I promise,” and “You know how the housing market is; we just didn’t have a lot of options,” and “We’re going to rebuild this porch; I know it looks awful.” I take great care to crop our house out of photos, and only share the newly remodeled interior on social media.

But the thing is, the blemishes I’m drawn to in our house are details I would never notice in a friend’s home. When a friend mentions the mismatched floors or chipped countertops she hates, I’m genuinely surprised, because I didn’t see those imperfections at all. I see her house as a place for memories to be made and life to be lived, rather than something to be perfected. So why is it so hard for me to feel that way about my own home? Why am I so quick to pick it apart and point out its flaws?

I recently read Shauna Niequist’s Cold Tangerines. In it, she writes about buying an old, in-need-of-love fixerupper. She describes comparing her house to newer, less worn houses, and the jealousy she feels toward her “new house” friends. I’ve read that essay at least a hundred times, because it describes my experience in this house so well, and every time I read it, a lump forms in my throat when I read these lines:

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We sit in my friend’s living room, watching our boys play on her antique rug. Her home is small, but beautiful and hollandlanemag.com/shop elegant, with a fully enclosed backyard where we’ve spent cool summer mornings. Over the clatter of toys, she asks what I’ve been up to.

“Honestly? I’ve been such a homebody. We haven’t been to town since last week, and it was only to pick up groceries,” I tell her, laughing.

“Us too,” she says, snuggling her six-week-old baby closer to her chest. “The weather has been terrible.”

I raise my eyebrows in surprise, and she clarifies: “Well, it hasn’t been very cold, but it’s so foggy and depressing.”

I smile. “You should come to our house. We’re in the sun almost every day, just barely above the fog.”

Driving home, the kids chatter in the back seat, playing a game that involves tossing an animal cracker back and forth. The fog is thick, and I think about how in winters past, I’ve been just as affected by the weather as my friend.

I turn onto our driveway, and as the car climbs toward the house, the fog dissipates to reveal blue sky and brilliant sunshine.

“The person having a problem with the house, clearly, is me. And it’s not about the house. It’s about me.”

Because that’s just exactly it. The person having a problem with our triple-wide manufactured home and its crooked porch isn’t the UPS driver or our sweet neighbor. It’s not our friends, and I doubt it’s our family. It’s me.

In this house, my daughter took her first steps. On this driveway, my son learned to steer on his balance bike.

On this porch, my husband and I spent summer evenings reconnecting after an impossibly hard year tried to tear us apart. And by choosing to focus my attention on the peeling paint and missing grass, I’m making the appearance of our house more important than the memories we’ve made and life we’ve lived in it.

I’ve asked myself a million times why it had to be this house, and I’ve asked God more times than that. But as I sit here in the office I designed, squinting against the glowing afternoon sun to watch my son play with trucks in our nonexistent yard, I catch sight of the fog line behind him, and I know. Because here, out of the fog, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. & 39

Words by Molly Flinkman Image by Tom Ezzatkhah via Unsplash

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our years ago, I stood in my yard in Iowa and watched my husband, Jake, hop into his rusty pick-up truck.

He adjusted his rearview mirror, glanced over at me with a quick wave, and then pulled away—a trailer filled with all our belongings towed behind him. I twirled my two-year-old daughter Lily’s ponytail with one hand and held her seven-month-old sister, Norah, with my other as I watched him disappear around the corner. An empty house remained behind me. Once its rooms were clean, the girls and I would follow Jake three states to the east—to Ohio.

m o o R o T w o r G

Turning the girls back toward the house, I stepped up onto the porch, feeling the weight of all the goodbyes it had held in the previous days. Friends had dropped in and out as we cleaned and packed—offering to come visit and reasoning we would be back eventually.

“It’s just a short time,” I heard again and again. “You’ll get through this.”

I heard their words and embraced the sincerity of each goodbye, but I also knew their lives would go on relatively unchanged without me. The uncertainty ahead was mine to face. Fear rose in my throat.

A homebody through and through, I was deeply averse to anything outside of my comfort zone. The only time I ever moved away from home was for college, and even then, I followed my best friend, so a piece of home was really just a top bunk away. Plans, details, and predictable scenarios were my friends; I tried to leave the unknown and unfamiliar pretty well alone. But my husband had just graduated from medical school, and there was a four-year residency program waiting for him 600 miles away.

So, the road stretched before me into a town I knew nothing about. I spent that morning dusting, scrubbing, and wondering how I could possibly do all the hard things this move would ask of me.

Then, a few hours later, I strapped the girls in the car and started driving. ›››

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&&& If you drew my comfort zone as a small circle on a piece of posterboard, then my first few months in Ohio were lived somewhere off the chart entirely.

While I tried to navigate a new city with two little girls in tow, it wasn’t unusual for Jake to work somewhere between 80 and 100 hours per week. This meant many of the unknown and unfamiliar scenarios were, understandably, my responsibility to figure out. I found doctors, called insurance providers, and ventured around our new grocery stores—learning quickly that a bag of Cheerios kept toddler fingers busy in a cart for much longer than, say, a graham cracker. I tried out new places with the girls. We went to splash pads and parks and picked apples together on the first day of fall. If nothing else, I’d put them in the car and we’d drive around learning the layout of the city streets.

Every single thing was new.

Our second month there, I realized that, besides Jake, I hadn’t had an actual, in-person conversation with another adult for weeks. I was lonely. I knew finding friends would force me into some potentially uncomfortable and vulnerable situations, but I also knew it was worth it, so I started building my community, one step at a time.

“Okay. Ready?” I ask. “Let’s see that plant.”

Lily lifts up a small, clear plastic cup from the ground in front of her. Her name is written across the front on a piece of tape—a mother’s day gift from preschool. Overflowing from its soil are four bright green tomato plant stems.

We set the small cup next to a larger pot, which Lily begins to fill with dirt. Once the new pot is almost full, I pull the tomato plant from its small pot, careful to keep its roots intact, and press it down. Lily covers it with a little more dirt, and then the girls take turns sprinkling it with water from their watering cans. Once finished, I slide the plant to the corner of the porch, where it can bask in the sun each afternoon.

Lily picks up the small cup, now empty, and turns it upside down.

“The roots ran out of room,” I tell her. “We had to move it to the bigger pot, so it would have more room to grow.” I know this fact about roots, of course, but as soon as I say it out loud, my mind spirals backwards. It has been three years since I stood in our old yard and watched Jake drive all our belongings away, but I can still palpably feel the uncertainty and fear that beat in my chest that cool, June morning. But, while I can still feel it, I’m far from the same girl.

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I am now more firm in my faith—the only constant I found when everything else was pulled from beneath my feet. I hollandlanemag.com/shop am more confident in my abilities thanks to all the times I

First, I found a church. I didn’t even wait for Jake to have a free Sunday; I just went for it alone and was overwhelmed by the immediate welcome. Next, we became regular library storytime attenders. I paid attention to women who had girls close in age to mine and embraced the awkwardness of handing someone my phone number for a play date. I even cold-called a local ministry and asked if they needed any volunteers. When the director asked to meet me, I loaded the girls in the car and drove to a town the guy who installed our internet told me I should probably avoid.

I did all these things even though I didn’t want to. And what I found was that, as time went on, the uncomfortable situations turned into familiarity. I kept showing up, and eventually this new city began to feel like home; it started to feel like a place I belonged. &&&

“Here, put these on,” I say to my daughters, tossing them each a pair of gardening gloves. It’s a warm June day, our third summer in Ohio.

Lily looks at the floral pattern with approval through her pink sunglasses and puts them on. Norah follows suit, happy to do whatever her big sister does. We sit down on the front porch, shaded by the eave of our house. The breeze rustles their white sundresses, and I hear a siren wail in the distance.

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was forced to navigate a new scenario or take another step outside my comfort zone. I am less afraid of the next time I’ll be forced to walk into something unknown.

I never would have changed in these ways had we stayed put. I didn’t see it at the time, but my roots were running out of room. A new place gave them a chance to dig deeper.

And with deeper roots, I had no other choice but to grow.

The girls kneel next to the tomato plant with bare feet and dirty knees. Lily leans her face in close and pinches a leaf between her fingers. Norah pats the dirt with an open hand.

The pot looks so big compared to the tiny stems in the center, but I know this is exactly what our little tomato plant needs. In time, it will dig its roots deep into the soil. It will weather rain and wind. It will keep its face turned toward the sun. Then, eventually, we’ll pluck cherry tomatoes from its vines, stretched tall across the porch slats.

I lean back in my chair and breathe in the warm air, thankful that a single transplant can yield such incredible growth. &

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Growing Inwards, Not Upwards

Words by Rebecca Padgett Image by Zan Frett

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T

he doctor has tried to placate me with a Barbie sticker and a cherry lollipop. I’m young, maybe eight years old, but too old to fall for such juvenile distractions.

He and my mother have their heads bent towards a folder of charts and they are talking in murmurs that I strain to hear. My stomach lurches, my pulse accelerates much like the anticipation of being called on to answer a math problem.

They turn to me. The doctor begins to speak, but I look at my mother. Her eyes tell me that I’m okay; that I have a choice.

I was born happy and healthy at 5 pounds and 14 ounces. I was not premature. Simply, I was small like my mother, like my grandmother. I was shorter than everyone my age – that was apparent from my height recorded at each doctor’s visit and my front and center status in school photos. My mother often made me protein shakes or loaded my oatmeal with peanut butter to help me gain weight. Even so, until that doctor’s visit I hadn’t viewed my size as a flaw.

My doctor showed me a chart with a curve, explaining that this was the growth curve for children my age. I was not on the curve, I was tiny, black dot below it. At the rate that I was growing, or in my case not growing, I would never be on the curve with my peers. None of this made sense to me. I could do everything they could do. I could run, play, learn, and create.

top cupboards. I could wear flats on a night out with friends instead of heels to try and match their height. On those same nights out I wouldn’t have to convince bouncers that at 27 I am in fact old enough for their bar. I would be able to see at concerts or sporting events. But to all these issues and more I’ve become satisfied – I enjoy watching my boyfriend reach for things, I am always able to find my size in the cutest pairs of heels, and my height often gets me front row access.

Throughout elementary and middle school especially I learned to breezily laugh off comments on my stature. Other students sometimes liked to pick me up. My dad encouraged me to tell them no. Through this I learned to stand up for myself, even if I wasn’t standing very tall. I am thankful for parents that instilled in me the ability to speak and think for myself. What I lacked in height, I intended to make up for in integrity.

Jokes, snide comments, and minor inconveniences aside, what still irks me is being viewed as inferior. In writing this piece, I find myself drawn to researching others who have either undergone or considered the growth hormones. In reading multiple articles, I came across a quotation by pediatric endocrinologist Lauren Cohen that resonated with me.

“One of the biggest side effects, if you start treating someone who’s short, maybe you’ll make them less short – but you’ve also now told them that there’s something wrong with being short,” Cohen said.

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I do not that all our those yearsshop. ago my pediatrician Click here to purchase it think from intended to make me feel inferior or lesser than. He wanted all of his patients to be happy, to be successful. By presenting the hollandlanemag.com/shop option and giving me a choice, he was doing his job. This is not

I was offered a growth hormone that members of my family could inject into me everyday essentially until I reached puberty. To most children the proposition of taking a daily shot would be terrifying. I didn’t fear the shot. Instead, I was deeply afraid that somehow the hormone shots would change me into someone I wasn’t. I was told I could gain a few inches in height; somehow those small measurements amounted to a monumental and unwelcome change. He began rattling off possible side effects now and later in life, but I had stopped listening. I had made a decision.

It astounds me that at such a young age I made that decision for myself. In my youth I was so very assured of myself, confident even, but I had no reason not to be. I was abundantly loved and supported by family. I had plenty of friends. I excelled in school and enjoyed my dance classes. I was healthy when so many people weren’t.

As soon as we got into the car I allowed tears to streak my face.

I felt my throat constrict while sitting on crinkly paper that stuck to my legs, but I refused to cry in front of the doctor.

I wasn’t crying because I regretted saying no. I was crying because for the first time in my life I was made to feel inferior.

As my mom comforted me, I knew she felt that way too. I think of my perspective now and I know I turned the treatments down in part for her. My mother is 4’10 and my grandmother is 5’0. They are the strongest, kindest, and most capable women I know. I wanted to grow up to be just like them.

There are some days when a few extra inches would be nice. I wouldn’t have to pull out the step stool to reach my

about him as a medical professional; this is about the stigmas attached to appearance.

In my research I came across many studies citing that men and women of taller statures tend to hold leadership positions and are viewed as more powerful. Throughout history, height has been high on the list of priorities when selecting a mate.

Since prehistoric times, it has been honed into us that stature amounts to superiority.

Self-doubt and insecurity only begin to seep in when I’m viewed as subordinate. My height does not equate to my integrity, my determination, my ability to lead, and my ability to impact this world. The same should be said for anyone who has been critiqued because of any aspect of their appearance.

My doctor was correct, I didn’t grow past 4’11 – a height situated right between my mother’s and grandmother’s. For each time I am doubted or taken less seriously because of my height, I am grateful for the opportunity to exhibit the power and strength that comes from my heart and head. Growth is measured in many ways – the most valuable being how we grow internally and how we use our own strength to grow others. &

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Growing Pains Words by Jo-Anne Neufeld Image by Robin Worrall via Unsplash

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“But Mom, EVERYONE in my class has *insert any social media avenue and cellular device*.” Said by my two tweens (ages 11 and 12) on a weekly basis. And all I can think is, “That’s nice, good for everyone in your class.” I am not ready for this. The navigating of parenting through social media and technology. My children do not have their own phones/tablets, and they don’t have accounts on social media. Am I a bad parent for not letting them have them?

Am I a good one? Who knows, really. Here I am trying to see clearly through this fog and trying to parent to the best of my ability.

We are the first generation of parents who are dealing with raising children in the age of full-blown technology and social media. I am constantly torn as a parent, about what to do with the pull of devices and social media on my children. I don’t want them to miss out on what their friends are doing, but at the same time I still want them to use their brains. I want them to be bored and explore and not miss out on real life because they are too focused on their screens. How do we create a balance? Is there a balance? Or is it an all or nothing kind of deal?

This change – the move from dependence to independence - is one that I had anticipated. Obviously, they are going to grow up. But this change is different than what I had envisioned. The day is coming where they will have social media accounts and even their own cell phones. But here’s the thing - I didn’t have a cell phone till I was in my 4th year of post-secondary education. Social media didn’t even fully exist until I was an adult. I didn’t have to navigate my teen years through the filters of SnapChat, Facebook, and Instagram. I had to have face to face conversations, complete with eye contact. There was no texting, no stories to follow or streaks to maintain. All I had to worry about, when I was their age, was what I was going to wear to school, make sure the notes I passed in class were not intercepted by the teacher and yelling “I GOT IT!” when the land line rang so my parents didn’t answer the phone before I did.

I’ll be honest, I really don’t know how to parent them in this transition. I don’t have the personal experience to pull from. I can’t just call my mom up and ask how she handled these situations – because they didn’t exist. I was never left out of a group chat – because we didn’t have them. I never had a screenshot circulated – because we didn’t have phones. I was never told such mean and hurtful things through a comment section (by strangers and “friends”) – because it is much harder to say mean things in person, to someone’s face, instead of typing and hiding behind a screen. Yes, I had to deal with being hurt, left out, rejected, and all things teen related, but it is a whole new ball game now.

So now, along with teaching my tweens about personal hygiene, crushes, dating, emotions, and basically life in general – I now need to make sure that they understand how important it is to maintain a clean slate both off and online. The posts they share on social media platforms could come back to haunt them. And not only that, but one slip up at a party, one outburst at school, one mis-sent text, and it could be recorded, screenshotted, and circulated.

I want my kids to know what the worst-case scenario is because I never want them to be in that situation, and I don’t want to be in that situation as a parent.

This world we live in hasissue? an ever-increasing need for instant Ready to read the whole gratification and satisfaction. One where we determine our status and our worth by the response time of texts and Click here to purchase itandfrom our shop. messages how many views and likes we get on social media. How do I teach my children that they are worth more than that? If I’m being truly honest – how do I teach hollandlanemag.com/shop myself that I am worth more than that? How do I make sure

I find myself, as a functioning adult, almost completely dependent on my phone. How will my growing children be able to navigate a new world that is literally at their fingertips? Granted, they have grown up with it from birth.

Sort of. I have documented their lives meticulously on social media (sorry kids). I had the educational spelling apps, and Angry Birds, downloaded on my phone for them to play with. They are pros at taking selfies, and they know how to use a phone, Facetime, and text (albeit with an excess of emojis). But as we move forward and start talking about them getting social media accounts – I am scared.

I am nervous and the Mama Bear in me wants to bubble wrap them and take them to an island far, far away where they can live without worrying about likes and comments and snap streaks.

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that they know that they are way more valuable than the amount of likes they get or how many “friends” they have?

How do I prepare them for situations that will test their character and their values? I am feeling caught between a rock and hard place where I want them to become more independent, but I also want to protect them from all the nasty and hurtful things that can happen online.

Do I think all social media is bad? No. Do I think it can be useful? Yes. Do I like navigating it as a parent? No. Will I work through this stage alongside my children? Yes. I will try my absolute best to try and guide my children through different stages of life. I feel this approaching stage will be trying and hard. Probably some tears. Possible disappointment. But also, some great avenues to learn from and life teaching moments, not just for my children but for me as well. This change from being kids to tweens to teens to adults is one that I know will be challenging but also so very rewarding. And I hope when they get to this parenting stage where I am right now, I will be on the receiving end of a phone call, or text, that starts out, “Hey Mom, what did you do with us when…..”, and hopefully I will be able to offer some wise words from our experience together as we transition and grow through this next stage of life. &

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This magazine wouldn’t exist without the loving support of our partners and readers. In this issue, we’re celebrating those who helped us bring the Growth Issue to life. We are forever grateful to you.

Sami Ross, shross.com Melissa Wert, print-therapy.com Courtney Wittich Angela Bauer Becca Gellner Cristina Duarte, perfectlyunplanned.com Cassidy Perry Linda Spencley Andrea Beck-Lundskow, Takingthemiddleseat.com Kimberly Allera, oliveroseevents.com Radhika Deshmukh-McDiarmid, radianphotography.com Christine Amoroso, Barenakedinpublic.com Barbara Ann Bruno, BarbaraAnnBruno.com Darlene LaMotte Dana Walsh Mia Sutton, mia-sutton.com Laci Hoyt, LiviMadeWithLove.etsy.com Eunice Brownlee, euniceann.com Amy Cook Judy Mei Samantha Berry Gina Schultz Libby Ferris Mary Mcdonough Luigi Rompani David Hardwick Betty Beck Kayla Mielke Jeanette Grzesik, grzesikconsulting.com Chrissy Gruninger, socialmediawellness.com Brigid Waszczak, brigie7.wixsite.com/spiritual-direction Jess Lambert

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Illuminate, shining a light on the creative within. A monthly membership program dedicated to getting you to write more and fall in love with the process of writing. illuminatewriting.com

Av Jorden creates luscious natural skincare products that give your skin what it truly craves. Indulge a little because pampering never felt so good! avjorden.com

Lucky Break Consulting educates and empowers emerging product-based brands. We teach passionate, creative women how to navigate the pitfalls of product pricing, brand development, and wholesale strategy so they can build their business empires with a bit more ease and a lot less anxiety. luckybreakconsulting.com

Chaotic & Collected is an online shop featuring cute lil’ garlands and party decor. Our philosophy is that every occasion deserves some awesome party decor (we even have 101 excuses just in case you need one!). chaoticcollectedinc.com

Em Connective is a safe place to embrace and be curious about disordered cycles and body image concerns, empower individuals through connection and knowledge, and emerge as a strengthened community of powerful women from the experiences of disordered body beliefs. Embrace.

Empower. Emerge. emconnective.com

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A More Mindful Life

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M

egan Jedlinski is one of those women that you meet and instantly want to be her best friend. She’s friendly, quick with the compliments, and makes you feel at ease. If you’re one of more than 11,000 followers of hers on Instagram, you also know she has a killer style and is mom to the sweetest little girl. I had the pleasure of meeting Megan years ago during a blogging trip and the moment I met her I thought “I want to be her.” She exudes confidence and talent. But she also has a humbleness to her that makes her even more likeable. When I reached out to her about appearing on our cover her response was one of genuine shock and excitement. But it isn’t just her likeability that made her the perfect cover girl for our Growth issue. It’s her willingness to be open about the struggles she has faced in her life to let women everywhere know that life isn’t always what it appears to be on Instagram and that everyone struggles. I was so excited to dig deeper into Megan’s story and learn from her.

Interview with Megan Jedlinski Interviewed by Sarah Hartley Inside Photos by Kristine Campbell / Outside Photos by Paige Babilla BODY IMAGE Body image is such an important topic for our readers and one that most women will struggle with at times in their life. Can you tell us where you’re at on your body image journey and what it has been like to get to this point?

To give a little background, I’ve struggled with eating disorders and body image issues since I was about 13 years old. Yeesh, as I’m typing that, I’m having a lot of judgement on myself that I still can’t say I’m recovered and fully love my body! And, I also have to high five myself for being leaps and bounds from where I was even just a few months ago, not to mention I’m so dang close to being on the other side. But I digress.

Feeling comfortable in my own skin is still something I struggle with often, but I’m leaps and bounds from where I was. It’s been a roller coaster and while it hasn’t been easy, I’m grateful for what I’ve learned about myself through the process.

You have a young daughter. I’d love to know first what your relationship was with your body as it changed during pregnancy and how you feel about it now post-pregnancy.

I wish I could say that during and post-pregnancy I finally embraced my body, all that it was capable of and our little miracle that it created. After two miscarriages and having lost our son to a rare heart defect at 21 weeks pregnant, I was hopeful that I’d finally be happy and content with with whatever weight I put on. But I wasn’t. The weight gain was hard and post-pregnancy I’d argue was even harder. Having breastfed my daughter for 17 months, I also sported more curves throughout post-pregnancy that had me missing my barely AA’s. I also felt the pressure to “bounce back” (which I think a lot of moms can relate to) and made a cognizant decision to dial back on social media, where I would constantly compare myself to other moms’ journeys.

Being two years out, my relationship with my body ebbs and flows. Some days I couldn’t be more amazed for all it’s done and other days I have a hard time fully embracing it.

The difference now-a-days is I’m aware when the negative feelings arise and don’t let it impact my day to day as much as I used to. I’ll acknowledge it, share it with my husband or sister and get on with my day.

Because you have a young daughter, what do you hope to instill in her about body image? Do you talk (or not talk) about your body in certain ways in front of her? How has having a daughter shaped your mindset around body image?

When we found out we were having a girl, my first thought was fear and that she’d be more vulnerable to struggling with body image issues and more or less be like me. And at the time we found out, I didn’t like me a whole lot.

She wasn’t even born yet and I already had an enormous amount of guilt over her potential life obstacles and how they would all be my fault. I’ve since come around, can honestly say I love myself and am going to be a kick-ass mom and role model to her.

My hope for her is that she always feel comfortable in her own skin and sees that the value of who she is comes from within. I fight everyday to get myself to that point and be the strong, positive example for her.

While she’s a little young to have a conversation about body image, I’m trying to help build the foundation for a healthy relationship with food, movement and mindfulness so her mind and body are in the best place they can be for whatever comes her way. When she was 18 months old I started taking her to cooking classes and since then she’s become my little sous chef at home! We go to yoga and other movement-based classes and she comes on runs with me and my husband. We also work on practicing mindful eating (as much as we can with a two year old!) where we sit to eat without any distractions.

GROWTH When it comes to growth, you believe it is always ongoing.

Can you expand on that? What does growth mean to you?

I attended a Tony Robbins conference a few years back and one of the most memorable statements he made was, “If you’re not growing, you’re dying”. Insert mind-blown emoji! I remember having this aha moment. Up until that point, I saw growth as something I could obtain, an end goal where my bad habits and unproductive thoughts were gone and my confidence levels were through the roof.

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MY HOPE FOR HER IS THAT SHE ALWAYS FEEL COMFORTABLE IN HER OWN SKIN AND SEES THAT THE VALUE OF WHO SHE IS COMES FROM WITHIN.

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This realization was a little discouraging and hard to swallow at first, but it also gave me a sigh of relief. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a sense of urgency when it comes to growth and needing to ‘figure it all out’. Life is short after all and wouldn’t it be better spent living up to my fullest potential sooner rather than later? But maybe waking up and showing up for my journey of growth is living up to my potential? Not to mention, what kind of life would it be if we ceased to find areas to grow? I’d imagine a pretty boring and unfulfilling one.

Growth to me now means moving forward. Growth is stepping out of your comfort zone and also taking small steps to expand your comfort zone. Growth is learning, becoming more aware of who you are and those around you.

Growth is a lifelong journey we have the choice to enjoy and embrace. Growth is understanding that while I may never eliminate all of my bad habits or become the most

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confident person in the world, I will keep going knowing that what I’ll gain instead will be far more rewarding than I could have ever imagined.

Two things you’ve talked about is being patient with yourself and having compassion. Why do you believe these ideas are essential for growth?

I’m actually going to add in that forgiveness for yourself and those around you is a prerequisite. I believe it’s hard to find compassion and patience for yourself and others when you haven’t truly forgiven.

I hold an immense amount of guilt from my past for what I put my family through associated with the amount of stress, worry, energy and money it cost my family and Steve. And while they can tell me a million times that stuff doesn’t matter and they’d do it all over again in a heartbeat, the guilt still lingers. I’d often feel I didn’t deserve to be

happy because of what I’d done and in my mind “taken” from the people I love most over the years. But at the end of the day, what happened, happened. One of my favorite quotes from Mel Robbins that helped me let go is, “if I had known better, I would have done better.”

While not everything I tried is something I do today, each served its own purpose and got me closer to where I am today.

with myself for the rest of the day, I acknowledge what happened, what may have triggered it and keep that data in mind to help prevent it from happening again. And just like that, I move on with my day and keep fighting the good fight.

and when I’m not seeing the results or a means to getting them, I become paralyzed, overthink, retreat and end up doing nothing at all. Embracing a ‘good enough’ mentality is taking me much farther than perfection ever could.

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Consistency has been crucial.

In order for me to be consistent though, practicing ‘good enough’ needed to become my Having the power to forgive myself to has allowed me to have new mantra.

Consistency is something I struggle with in Click here purchase it from our shop. more compassion and patience as I move forward in my many areas of my life from my nighttime routine, workout recovery and life in general. If I retreat to an unhealthy schedule, blogging, to making plans with friends. I often hollandlanemag.com/shop behavior, instead of dwelling on it and feeling disappointed have an idea of what I want something to look or be like,

What have you found is essential for growth in your life?

First and foremost, truly wanting change and knowing WHY you want it. Self-growth is a constant roller coaster, but having your why can always be there to ground you and remind you to keep going.

Having an open mind! A journey of self-growth is not “one-size-fits -all” and different approaches to the growth you’re wanting in your life might not be the best fit for each season of your life. Over the years I’ve gone to therapy, saw a life-coach, nutritionist, tried medications, went to selfgrowth conferences, practiced visualisation, Ayurveda, hypnosis, energy work, switched to a plant-based diet, seen an acupuncturist. I’m probably leaving a few things out, but my point is, be open to what’s available. Be your own advocate,get second opinions, be prepared to experience a paradigm shift and have your existing beliefs be challenged.

Something it seems many women struggle with, especially in our social media age, is comparison and imposter syndrome. Do you struggle with this? How do you combat these feelings?

A big whopping, YES! This is something I’ve struggled with for years and becoming a mom has emphasized a lot of these feelings for me. I see moms that seem to have it all together, they’re in great shape, their house is perfectly decorated and clean, they make homemade meals everyday of the week, they have perfectly dressed kids and are kicking butt in their careers or their own businesses. This is amazing for them, but I have a hard time tuning it out and getting back to what makes me happy and being proud of my own accomplishments. When these feelings start to arise, I often take a step back from social media to refocus and take a peek at my vision board to remember what I want for my life.

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MINIMALISM In recent years, you’ve begun working towards a minimal, sustainable lifestyle. Can you talk to us about that? What lead to this choice? What are you focused on? Are there any steps that others can take to slowly ease into this type of lifestyle?

About 4 years ago I decided to switch up my therapy for a few months and saw a life coach instead. At the time, I was trying to figure out my next career path, so I figured a life coach would be a better fit for that point in my life. While she indeed helped me get started with my new career at the time, it was the revelation she helped me make about my personal life that left the most impact.

One of the exercises we did was called the Wheel of Life where you ranked your satisfaction of the different areas of your life. One was environment and while our house was generally clean and organized, my areas, like my drawers, closets and office, were literally bursting at the seams with stuff ! Looking back, I’d say I was a borderline hoarder.

What that exercise helped me realize was that the chaos in my environment was stirring a lot of the chaos in my mind. My constant need for more things, more clothes, etc. was negatively impacting not just my house and our bank account, but my mental and emotional well-being. In the months to follow I would go on to get rid of about 80% of my wardrobe, continue the decluttering spree through the other rooms in the house and fell out of love with shopping.

daughter. When I was younger, my parents sacrificed an enormous amount of time, energy and money into my health and wellbeing, doing everything they could and constantly seeking out the best or newest treatment and approaches. This obviously had a huge impact on my sisters as well. Unfortunately, when I met Steve, I was still very engaged with my disorders and he too has sacrificed a lot and been my rock over this past decade. So without a doubt, I want to show them my appreciation by never giving up and that it was all worth it.

Now with having a daughter, I’m more determined than ever. She’s so intuitive and even though she’s young, she can definitely pick up on the energy of those around her, especially mine. I want nothing more in this world than to make her proud, be someone she looks up to, and at the very least, sees the determination and perseverance her mama has. I want to be the best version of myself I can be so that I can be there to support her living life to her fullest.

What are you most looking forward to in life?

Continuing to show up everyday and grow as a person, mother, wife, sister, daughter and friend. I want to keep learning, evolving and opening my eyes to what’s possible while also embracing a balance of being present and appreciating what life is today and who I am now.

Career-wise, I’m still issue? loving being a stay-at-home-mom Ready to read the whole and blogging on our minimal-ish and mindful living journey when I can. I’ll also be launching my sustainable, It wasn’t an overnight or easy process, which is why it’s so Click to ittoy from shop. wooden business in theour coming year!

When I had P, I important to me thathere the things we bringpurchase into our home came up with an idea for a business that I pushed to the are well thought out and serve a purpose. Becoming more side because I didn’t see myself having the wherewithal mindful about our purchases and home environment has hollandlanemag.com/shop to pursue it at the time. However, last June, after losing also inspired me to learn more about how things are made, who makes them and what they’re are made of. Pre-purge, I was never really considering the impact my purchases of clothing, toys, food, etc. had on anyone else or our planet.

Now-a-days, we make a concerted effort to purchase ethical and sustainable products when we can. We’re by no means perfect, but are always looking for ways we can do more and build upon changes we’ve already made.

My two cents on easing into this kind of lifestyle is to take it a step at a time, and like with anything else, don’t compare your journey to anyone else's. Maybe you start by going on Pinterest or Instagram and following accounts that offer tips and a sense of support and community. Maybe you make sure to keep your reusable bags in the car and by the door so you don’t forget them the next time you run out. Maybe it’s making one purchase of a coffee thermos or water bottle so you can ditch the single use cups. My point is, it can be overwhelming when you dive in, so take it a step at a time and surrender any judgement you may have on yourself during the process.

THE FUTURE What drives your commitment to your ongoing growth and improvement? Why is it so important to you?

My family. My parents, my sisters, my husband and my

another pregnancy, I got the kick in the butt I needed and decided to go for it.

With the support of family and having our daughter in school two days a week, I’ve been able to pursue my new passion of woodworking and have been busy behind the scenes building something I wouldn’t have ever imagined myself doing. There’s still a lot of work to be done, but I look forward to enjoying the journey and sharing more as it unfolds.

Oh, and we’re also in the midst of building our dream home and will be moving sometime next spring! It’s been quite a process and we’re really grateful for the experience and the opportunity to move our family into a home that really speaks to us and that might even put my new woodworking skills to use!

Thank you, Megan. We are so grateful to women like you who open up your hearts and share the truth, no matter what it looks like so that women around the world know that they are not alone. You are an inspiration and we cannot wait to see what you do with your new business. &

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OUT

LOUD Words & Images by Devon Johnson

I

had a couple of moments this week where I felt like I was living life backward. It started when I got offered a job at Anthropologie as a Sales Associate. Half of me was relieved that after being out of work for four months, moving from vapid and suburban Orange County to fast-paced New York City, I had something that I could feel confident in and something that I knew I could succeed in. However, the other half of me was saying: You achieved a Bachelor’s degree in Literature, landed a big girl job in marketing, and started an online business to end up selling clothes on 5th avenue?

After having a few setbacks in the apartment search (they don’t tell you how soul-sucking it can be to have your accomplishments reduced to numbers on a white sheet of paper), my roommate and I finally got the keys to our empty two bedroom place. Everything was new to us. I had a mattress delivered to my door in a box.

That was a first. Not having any wifi, trying to figure out who to call, having nothing in the pantry, and not knowing where the nearest grocery store was were all uncomfortable things to admit to myself. Everything was like learning to do life over again. The only thing that made sense to me was the French Press I brought for my morning coffee. Was this what I signed up for? ›››

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I had to stop and remind my 25-year-old self that this move actually meant something. That I wasn’t wasting my time, being irresponsible, or stunting my career growth by leaving my job and taking a minimum wage position. Because my goals were bigger than that.

I had never been the kid that knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I got into college with an “undecided major” on my application. I had never truly known, or if I’m being honest, admitted that I wanted something that felt unachievable. And if I couldn’t achieve my dream, then was it worth pursuing?

Finally, I voiced it. It felt rigid and shallow in my ears, but I said it out loud. And that wasn’t a small thing.

I wanted to act. Not just act in community theatre or in the background of shows where my face would inevitably be blurred—no, I wanted the big dream. I wanted to be on stage and in the films people talk about on podcasts.

I was asked point blank by a near stranger in a casual conversation the first week I moved to New York: “What do you want to do here more than anything in the world?” I said it out loud then and it felt like the most right decision I had ever made.

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If I’m continuing on my authentic streak here, I honestly didn’t expect it when I moved here. I didn’t expect people I met to challenge me to look deeper. Everyone moves to the city for something I was told. I moved for something, but it just wasn’t what I originally thought.

It took me deciding to move across the country to a city that values acting as an achievement to really understand that that’s what I wanted most and that that’s why I fell in love with this city. It still sounds a little silly to say to people who ask why I moved. At first, when I told my family and friends why I was moving I would tell them, “I’m going into the publishing field, and New York has all the publishing houses.” But I started to feel like that wasn’t entirely true as I continued to listen to my heart, and open up to people close to me. After all, the only reason I knew New York was the place for me was because of a musical, Dear Evan Hansen, that my now roommate convinced me to fly across the country to see.

I still get nervous as I run from my subway stop to an audition, trying to hustle enough to get me there faster but not too much so that I sweat or look like I ran. There are still voices in my head reminding me that I haven’t achieved anything yet, that I’m not classically trained, that I only just started taking voice lessons, that the only dancing I grew up with was at high school gyms, and that I shouldn’t be here. But the voice that matters most to me isn’t the one that whispers doubts, the voice that matters is the one that speaks out loud. Because that voice is mine, and it beat out all the other whispers. &

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Words by Christine Carpenter Image by Nynne Schroder via Unsplash

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Knitting

in the Now

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find myself sitting in our guest room, cross-legged, inundated on the floor. I am not a housekeeper. Allow me to reiterate for emphasis; I am not a housekeeper.

As a creative by nature, our home is typically a replication of my brain; complete and utter confusion, absolute disarray. We do not have any children to scapegoat this chaotic clutter and I am certain at this point that as much as it drives my husband insane, it equally moves him.

(I’ve noticed him staring adoringly at me in my intensity towards newfound creative ventures). In an attempt to organize, I’m on the sun-faded blue nubby carpet in our second bedroom of our cozy condominium, tackling piles.

There’s clothing heaped across the full-sized bed, both folded and strewn about, copious stacks of books and magazines, papers galore, and of course, littering every nook and cranny - my yarn. Yarn which is not organized with any sense of understanding. A yarn cabinet, which by the way, was intended to keep me straightened up, is spewing hanks of hand-dyed merino, alpaca, and cotton.

And yet, I am rattled with anxiety. Its blow akin to a tidal wave, asphyxiating my breath on my commute, debilitating me. It grows to the point where if not sedated by a tiny dissolvable pill, I feel the adrenaline pulsing through to my fingertips, my thoughts ablaze in my brain, burning through the car of every train of thought.

The pressure on me is self-inflicted. I am approaching thirty-one, insatiably curious as to why I lack the maternal instinct or a strong desire for children. Examining every bit of what I’ve accomplished thus far and it hardly feels adequate. The buzz of incessant chatter in my mind leaves my knees twitching and hands restless. I awake one day and promptly decide to teach myself to knit. I had a bit of experience in the craft from college and was desperate for a refresher; in dire need to coax my fidgety fingers.

Unbeknownst to me, the yarn is magic. The strands tug me into the present. Forced to examine the new pattern at my lap, to study it and to refocus my attention to my hands.

The hands are a funny thing. You can virtually gauge one’s mental state by the palms and fingertips. Mine grow damp with a layer of sticky sweat, fingers trembling. Knitting becomes the antidote, the accomplice to combat my anxiety.

Whether it be a completion, an unraveling, or a project in the works, the fibers in which I use to knit evolve into a sage companion. This newfound needle-craft the means of accepting the current conditions of my life, regardless of circumstance. Accepting the state of yarns develops into acceptance of the state of being. Thus, as the piece I craft grows, so do I.

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About two years ago, in an anxiety-ridden state and unable to keep my hands still, I began knitting. What I knew was that I would acquire a newfound skill set and create some unique accessories. What I was completely unaware of at the time was how deep of an impact delving into the craft would have on my personal growth. How those mismatched jumbles of fibers would draw me closer to myself than I had ever deemed imaginable, eliciting an empathic excursion, guiding me toward the truest sense of who I am.

Growing up I was fortunate. I cannot play the tortured artist card (thanks, Mom and Dad). My parents, habitually fostering my creative endeavors, made sure I had ample sketch books, acrylic paint sets, watercolors, every blank notebook I’d desired, and a sewing machine. Always a proponent of making, in high school I’d spent less time studying for the SAT’s and every free moment in my sewing classes. I was not involved in the art program in any serious capacity; I had only dabbled in some classes, like a womanizer of the arts; noncommittal to one medium or creative outlet; inconsistently exploring and then abandoning an artistic category.

I am back on the carpeted floor. In the jumble of belongings, my head mirrors the mayhem at my feet. I remind myself that I am in a good place. Nearing a half decade into marriage, I am equally satisfied in my spouse and our ever-evolving partnership. I am engaged in a career that is creatively nourishing; developing handbags in the accessories district of Manhattan. My family is compassionate and supportive.

As I tug the yarn from the sinewy ball I’d wound, rhythmically inserting and wrapping the fibers, securing them to their previous row’s counterpart; it becomes abundantly clear.

I can curate my own life, just as I’d develop a handbag at my workplace or redecorate our home. Equivalent to any creative endeavor I had ever pursued, I interlace my own evolution. That realization, the supple yarn and the driftwood needles, became the means to my freedom. I had the license not only to explore, but to own with conviction, my nonconformity.

Disentangling my plaguing thoughts and entangling with the yarn was a gift granted at a time when I was most vulnerable. The catharsis of each stitch, a reminder that like the heap of projects I fumble through, I too, am a work in progress; always to be revered a work of art in the making.

Gradually, I accept. I permit my developing life, in all its beauty, in all its tattered ends, to be enough. &

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Words by Katy Post Image by Scott Broome via Unsplash

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Click here it don’t from our shop. else if you love yourself first. I still don’t fully believe lot can happen in twelveto years.purchase People change, that statement, but I do believe the sentiment. If I could cities grow, and a relationship can evolve from rewrite the adage, it would be, “you can love someone else two awkwardhollandlanemag.com/shop teenagers sitting side by side in a before you love yourself, but it’s impossible to fully receive high school cafeteria to becoming one through

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the bond of marriage. I’ve only been married to my husband for one and a half years, but we’ve been together since we were sixteen. We went to high school together, both attended the same university, went to grad school, lived long distance for three years, and moved to different states, four times collectively. All of this happened before we stood in front of our family and friends and declared our love for each other. Needless to say, we’ve been through a lot as individuals and as a couple in these past twelve years. Would you believe me if I said the hardest year of our relationship was the first year we were married?

I was always skeptical when people would say that a lot changes when two people get married. If anyone knew about change it was my partner and I. Believe me, neither of us are the same people today as we were when we met, thankfully. Plus, we had lived together before we got married, so how different could it be? I would also be curious when people would say that marriage takes a lot of work. What does that even mean? Work? If you love someone, shouldn’t it be easy? If you haven’t figured it out yet, I was pretty naïve. I had a lot of questions and not many answers. Something else I was always skeptical of was people who said it’s impossible to love someone

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someone else’s love until you deal with your own emotional baggage and understand how it impacts your relationship with that person” although, that may be a bit too wordy.

It’s one thing to deal with your own “stuff ”, but it’s another to understand how it impacts your partner and, in turn, your relationship. On top of us not having dealt with our own emotional history, a few months into being blissfully married, our honeymoon phase wore off and we were confronted with the worst versions of ourselves. For better or worse, right? We had to learn how to communicate; and I don’t mean basic, day-to-day communication, but really, deeply communicate. We had to learn how to truly respect one another and to stop looking through our lenses that were colored by our pasts so that we could see the other person’s intimate experiences as a human being, outside of our expectations of what it meant to be a husband or wife.

Hardest of all, and something we are both still working on, we had to learn how to not only accept our flaws but to embrace them and to stop expecting anything to be perfect.

Exactly one week before our wedding, I started seeing a therapist for the first time since I was mandated at age 12 when my parents divorced. My reasons for starting weren’t

Marriage, Realistically the same reasons I continue to go and they weren’t even the reasons I really needed to go in the first place. As many soon-to-be brides, I was stressed and anxious about planning a perfect wedding but that stress was starting to affect my daily life. So, being the particular person I am, I combed pages of Psychology Today and searched for the therapist I thought would be the best fit for me.

Also, being a therapist myself, I had pretty high standards.

After finding someone who fit my criteria, I scheduled an appointment. It took me a long time to develop a relationship with Lisa, but she was patient and compassionate, as most therapists are. I had known I would benefit from seeing a therapist for years but I always let my pride get in the way. I was the one who championed others to talk about their problems and had said, “everyone can benefit from going to therapy!” more than a handful of times. I worked on a myriad of things and it was, and continues to be, a long, very rewarding road. My thoughts and feelings of not being “good enough” were pervasive, ran deep, and fueled my perfectionism. It took me over a year of consistent sessions to even start to reverse those thoughts. When we were confronted with our first big challenge as a married couple, I had a choice to see and honor my worth while simultaneously accepting our less than perfect relationship or to continue to believe my thoughts of not being good enough and to keep grinding at my unrealistic expectation of what our marriage was.

Everyone has life-changing incidents happen and in any marriage you have to choose how you’re going to work through them. Every day, people have to navigate big moves, being laid off, affairs, divorce, loss of children, deaths of loved ones, and many other heartbreaking traumas. Unfortunately, you can’t control what life decides to serve you on any given day. On the plus side, you can work on managing your own reactions to things outside of your control and learn how to do so with someone there to support you. My partner and I have had to face many challenges together and we still have a lifetime of challenges ahead of us. We’ve learned a lot on this road together, but that doesn’t mean that tomorrow’s dish served by life might feel impossible to eat.

We still have loads of growth to do both as individuals and together in our marriage, but isn’t that part of what makes life so amazing? The opportunity to change and grow as a person is truly special and having the chance to do that alongside someone you love is the most rewarding thing I’ve yet to experience. Embracing the vulnerability of fully, entirely trusting and loving someone is nearly inexplicable.

I’m not going to lie to you, on the surface it’s terrifying, but after you sift through the expectations, shame, and criticism, it’s all-encompassing, visceral joy. &

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LESSONS LEARNED Words & Images by Christine Amoroso

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y grandson, Luca, opens the small book with his dirty little boy hands and gives the words his full attention. A quick breath and he begins to read loud and proud, “Dad has a fan. Dad can fan. Dad has a plan.” The words are simple and the story is hardly a page turner, yet his strong vocal expression has me hanging on his every word. Stuck for a second, he pauses. Silently I wait, willing him to remember the phonics rules he has learned. He makes the sound of each letter individually, then produces a choppy blend.

When the word emerges, he nearly shouts it as if to say, “I did it!” My arm around him, I pull him close, kissing the top of his head, “You are working so hard, Luca. I am so proud of you.” He smiles and asks, “Nonna can I read another story to you?” “I would love that,” is always my reply.

A few months ago asking Luca to read would lead to tears and protests. He was embarrassed to read “baby” books and insisted on choosing books beyond his capability.

Frustrated, he made wild guesses at words and argued when his mom or I tried to help. His teacher expressed genuine concern for his lack of progress, his mom worried, and Luca felt like a failure. He said as much every time he sat down to do homework, “Why can’t I read like the other kids in my class?” Sometimes crying, “I’m just a dumb kid.”

At seven years old he had already decided he was stupid and that he would never read. His self assessment was far from the truth. Articulate with an amazing vocabulary and a wide variety of interests, he has always talked up a storm.

But he was unable to crack the reading code.

His struggles in school were evident in pre-K and continued in kindergarten. An anxious little guy, he was a frequent flyer in the health office with imaginary belly aches and random pains. Anything to escape the work he could not do, anything to go home. Living in Italy during that time, I listened as my daughter told me about Luca’s lack of progress. Far away and unable to help, I could only offer recycled advice from my days as a teacher and principal. I was useless.

Home to stay last August, I spent the remaining lazy days of summer with Luca. Our bond grew stronger than ever, and I was sure our time together calmed his heart and mind.

With first grade approaching I wanted his little psyche prepared for the new school year. He would probably need a tutor, but that could wait for now.

At the first parent conference, just weeks into the school year, Luca’s teacher reported he was far behind his classmates. Homework time was filled with arguments and tears. No one was happy, least of all Luca. Given my connections, I committed to finding a tutor immediately.

And I found her, Miss Brancky, a young teacher I had hired myself a few years ago. Firm, patient, and kind, she is a perfect fit for Luca.

Two days a week, Luca’s already full schedule is extended by an intense hour of reading instruction, and then an additional hour in the car. I cart him from school to my house, to tutoring, and then home in time for dinner. A very long day for a first grader, but he seems to be taking it all in stride. I, on the other hand, am exhausted. These days, I spend less time writing and more time stuck in traffic, racking up toll road fees. But I love my grandson, and I am willing to do anything to make him a happy learner and a reader.

Two months later I’m still exhausted, but the rewards are many. I love the smile on Luca's face as he spies me among the moms and dads at afternoon pickup. I love the feel of his hand in mine as we run to my car, hurrying home to grab a quick snack. I love the endless chatter about his little boy life as we drive along Pacific Coast Highway to the tutor.

And I love catching the last few minutes of his session as he shows off his reading skills, full of confidence and pride.

He says, “Nonna, I love to read.” I’d sit in gridlock for hours to hear those words, to have this precious time with Luca, and to experience the glow of his growth.

Funny, I had not planned to return to my hometown. I was sure I’d be in a relationship and living in Los Angeles. But my plan collapsed, freeing me up to help Luca. Turns out learning to read was just the beginning for him. Successfully completing one difficult task after another, his confidence has exploded. He believes in himself and his ability to do hard things, to learn. And he is happy.

Every now and then I wonder what would have happened if my dream of LA living had come true. Would Luca be reading? Would he be happy? The farther I get from that tired old dream the more I believe that I am meant to be exactly where I am . . . helping my family and giving my love and support to the boy who loves me the most.

My, how we have grown... &

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“The goal in sacred story is always to come back home, after getting the protagonist to leave home in the first place! A contradiction?

A paradox? Yes, but now home has a whole new meaning, never imagined before.”

-Richard Rohr, Falling Upward Just last year, I came home. That is, I moved back to the area where I grew up, with a husband, toddler, and baby (well, an inutero one) in tow.

Home is the rural Midwest, a city of 15,000 or so with small towns and farmland all around. It’s two-lane highways and gravel roads and my graduating class of 15 people. It’s pick-ups and high school sports and way more churches than you’d think.

My parents still live here, and both of my brothers have chosen to live here, too. As for me, I hadn’t lived here since I was 18. I went to college a few hours away then lived the “big city” life for about a decade, first in Los Angeles and then in Minneapolis.

My life was incessant traffic and concrete, endless diversity, and new ideas around every corner.

They say that leaving home is something we have to do to truly grow up and find our own way. That doesn’t necessarily mean our literal homes, but often it does because of the sameness and smallness that home usually implies. I’ve found this to be true. Families and communities--tight-knit groups of any kind, really--often become echo chambers, where we only hear our own perspectives being reflected back to us. Leaving exposes you to other ways of thinking and being in the world. In college and the years after, living away from my family and the area in which I was raised allowed me to fully expand into myself. In those years, I not only embraced new perspectives but experienced intense personal growth. I dealt with deeply ingrained issues around perfectionism, and I embraced a spiritual path that felt true and authentic to me.

Do I need to say it? Moving back home was harder than I thought it’d be. Things weren’t like we expected, and strong emotions abounded. I spent lots of time wallowing in shallow self-pity: I gave up so much to move here! I miss my friends. I miss Trader Joe’s! Truly though, my husband and I talked late at night and earnestly considered: Had we made a mistake? I’m well-versed in the truth that there’s growth to be had in discomfort. So I sat with it and tried to be open. What was there to learn here?

One night, the book I was reading in bed spoke directly to me. In Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life, Richard Rohr writes about the “second half of life,” which isn’t about our age but rather our choice to start asking the big questions and courageously seek out answers. Yes, I thought. I had done so much of this work. I had recognized and dealt with unhealthy habits and patterns from my childhood and found a faith I could call my own. I felt affirmed; I was proud of my growth.

In this second half of life, he continued, we’re often at odds with things from our first half of life, like home and family. Aha! Here was the root of my discontent. Life didn’t look like we thought it might, sure, but moving is hard and establishing a life takes time. What was truly difficult was coming face-to-face with patterns and mindsets I had worked to heal from. There are so many good things about the way I was raised, but there are also hurtful memories, unhealthy beliefs, and family mantras I no longer believe in. It was startling and painful to see them up close, with fresh eyes.

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Through those years I was away, I didn’t think I’d changed all that much. In my head, my relationships with my family remained strong. But now our houses were all less than 20 minutes away. hollandlanemag.com/shop When I saw how my family lived up close, I realized how my

I knew I’d grown and changed, but it wasn’t until I returned home that I realized just how much. The question then became: what was I going to do with that realization? &&& Hippies at heart, my husband and I had discussed the idea of moving back here as we longed for a slower, simpler lifestyle.

I always felt close to my family and loved the idea of coming home. When I found out I was unexpectedly pregnant with our second daughter, we decided to make the jump. He got the job and before we knew it, we had sold our house and our possessions were in a U-Haul on the Interstate.

We were sort of in survival mode, so I didn’t think too much about what to expect. I was excited to have the support of family in the very demanding years of small children, and we were looking forward to the more relaxed pace of life we’d enjoy (no traffic or parking issues here!).

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experiences and growth had truly changed me. My siblings and I were never exactly the same, but we’re sure different now. I’d left home; they didn’t. Until I lived around my family as an adult, I didn’t understand how different I had become.

I thought I was done growing, but moving home taught me that there’s still work to do. In the last year, I’ve developed deeper self-compassion as I more clearly see how my worldview was formed. I’m gaining skills in conflict resolution and how to set kind-but-firm boundaries. I’m learning that the more aware I am of my own childhood, the better I can raise my own children.

Mostly, I’m learning the meaning of a phrase I always thought was trite: to be the change I want to see. It’s difficult and frustrating to see old patterns persist, but no one changes because someone told them they were wrong. The best way I can offer what I’ve learned is to simply live it out, and then be loving and patient with the growth of others. And, of course, to remain open myself, remembering that I don’t have all the answers either.

Moving back home has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but it feels right, like the next step in a brave journey. I can feel home’s “whole new meaning” on the horizon. Growth never stops, as it turns out. &

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Timeless Beauty Words by Andea Beims Images by Jessica Collins Photography

Sitting across the table sat a woman of utter beauty. Upon meeting her, I gasped, "You are beautiful!" Though startled, she smiled and wrapped her cardigan around her slender frame. I’m sure she had heard this before, and her beauty radiated even more gracefully accepting my compliment yet humbly denying the truth. Withholding the compulsion to ask her age, I felt encouraged by her intense gaze. Her beauty was not due to the escape of time’s reflection upon her face. It was her grace - her dignity, her strength veined with kindness that precluded her age telling her story with every line, every trace. A living road map of wisdom.

Timeless beauty in a face.

Her story revealed service that could not be returned, sacrifice too numerous to be quantified, and grace upon grace upon grace. Introduced by a mentor and friend, she left a mark on me that day - she and countless other women in my life who have done the same. I tried to blink slowly, writing on the back of my eyelids for memory's sake. “Might I live and grow in beauty in such a way."

Aging. A term often paralleled in our society as weathering or withering and given fast the color gray. Though by definition, aging is the natural process of growing old not fearfully withering. However, as a western society, we reveal a definition that elevates the physical effects while possibly depleting the inward growth taking place with many viewing the aging process as something to be grieved, ignored, or even reversed instead of displayed.

Last year alone the anti-aging services market was valued at $23.45 billion.

Talk about putting up a fight to save face! It is expected to increase and more investment and technology put forth as society continues grasping at the seemingly promising but always elusive fountain of youth. Nonetheless, aging and its effects, especially the end, are inevitable. We will grow old. Therefore, the question is how rather than if or when, and I can’t help but wonder what if we leaned in rather than away? ›››

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This said, I have accepted my fate. I am growing old, and I like it. In fact, I feel great! Don’t get me wrong, I’m not running around like a child with limitless energy, but I am eternally grateful to be 38. I wouldn’t trade this time in life with any other. I am comfortable in my skin, and I have this fantastic feeling this will only increase as I age. Though I will admit crow's feet take a bit of getting used to, but my white hairs - I think they are fascinating!

I am increasingly curious as to what these white siren sopranos in a dark sea will show me. And I hope I may look into a mirror and admire the change with gladness, celebrating a life well lived rather than preserved.

Listen, ladies, if you want to change your diet (do it), color your hair (though I think gray is gorgeous and on trend), use your serum (this girl uses Beautycounter antiaging serum, twice a day), sleep on that satin pillow case (who doesn’t like a little luxury), add in a yoga routine (I’ve even looked into face yoga; it’s a thing), by all means do it, but do so as a proactive measure giving value to the choices you make, leaving fearful insecurity in its place.

One will help you grow, the other will actually potentially hasten that which you are running from in the first place.

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Obviously I am not opposed to certain regiments of health aesthetics,our but it struck me early on that Click here to purchase itor even from shop. the most beautiful qualities of the amazing women in my life that I wanted to emulate were their laughs, their wit, hollandlanemag.com/shop their fire, their depth, and yes, even the acknowledgement rather than dismissal of their age. And while I might tilt my head and gaze upon women in the aesthetics of their youth, I have also grown to admire the lines of time, even my own, and the stories they tell.

I can hear it now… But what about arthritis and dementia?

What about all the potential ailments and changes that come with the passing of time? How is that something to embrace? I admit, I do not look forward to the things out of my control, but I can honestly say at this point in life, I am unafraid. I know what it is like to walk through a storm and still remain. And if the definition of aging is true, I may grow internally in strength though my body is externally weakening.

In the future, I will know how to ease into the wave or let go and be swept away. I can trust what is to come, and I feel no compulsion to pretend or keep grasping for a past I wouldn’t want to relive anyway. I am growing old, and it’s okay. I will one day become a person who once was, but timeless beauty never fades. &

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GROWING UP 76

Words by Mallory Lehenbauer Image by Kelsey Chance via Unsplash

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few weeks ago I sat on the couch in my therapist’s office while together we constructed a family tree. My family tree was intricate and the relationships between all of the people are complicated. We drew double lines to show solid relationships, squiggle lines to show shaky relationships, and broken lines to show estranged relationships.

After we finished creating this elaborate tree, my therapist looked at me straight in the eye and said, “How on earth are you so healthy?”

My response: “I got away.”

I came home that night to my stable husband and beloved Welsh corgi and thought about it, how am I so different from the people I come from? How did I break, thus far, the cycle of addiction, dysfunction, and more?

Gaining “freedom” and moving away from home did not rid me of my problems. Turns out my Volkswagen Rabbit wasn’t just full of dorm decor, but also all of my emotional baggage.

The dysfunction of my family was at a distance, but the baggage I picked up along the way weighed me down. I didn’t know how to function in healthy relationships and I didn’t know how to create boundaries for my existing unhealthy ones.

I joined a campus organization that mentored high school students and I somehow passed the interview and made the cut to be a leader. This is still shocking to me, honestly.

Who thought it was a good idea to let a deeply damaged and emotional 18-year-old mentor 14-year-olds is beyond my understanding.

Those girls would maybe tell you that I impacted their Ready to read the lives, whole but that’s a lie, issue? they changed mine. I was forced through mentorship to embrace my own insecurities hard conversations were no longer optional and dealing Click here to purchase it from our shop. with your emotions was necessary to heal. I learned what I started taking care of my brothers and myself as I watched an honest and loving relationship could look like. I learned my parents go through hollandlanemag.com/shop a messy and complicated divorce. to love those girls even when they didn’t love me back.

Practically speaking, I grew up really fast. When my parent’s divorce happened, I was twelve years old and my world changed.

One afternoon my mom picked us up from school, took all three of us home and told us we could pack one bag in the next thirty minutes and to get in the car. While sobbing and confused, we packed our bags and jumped in with her.

My dad kept calling my mom over and over on a blackand-white Nokia cell phone and exclaimed if we did not turn around, the house would be sold when she got back.

We made it two hours down the highway before we turned around.

Looking back as an adult, clearly, my mom wanted out.

She wanted a freedom that was unattainable because of the three young humans sitting in her backseat. She never got out; I knew I had to.

When I finally did leave home - in the privileged sense of the word - I went to college in Oxford, Mississippi.

Finally breaking up with my codependent boyfriend and embracing my new identity as a do-whatever-I-want college student.

Hard stop.

In the next four years, I was forced to embrace myself and heal. It was really messy and I continually made mistakes in my relationships with my parents, roommates, and friends.

The difference was I had room to fail. I had room to learn.

I had room to grow.

I thought I experienced growing up when I was a teenager as I stepped into the role of an adult, a caretaker of siblings, and a codependent partner in a teen relationship. Growing up doesn’t mean you have a laundry list of responsibilities, it means you take care of your baggage.

Growing up means experiencing growing pains: embracing pain and working toward healing. Sometimes that healing only comes to you and those relationships are beyond mending.

Not only did I need to get away from my environment to grow (in a real sense), but I also needed a community around me who would let me run away if I needed to. I needed to learn what it meant to be loved as I was. And ultimately, I learned to love myself. &

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Words by Nicole Ohman Image by Joshua Hanford

Life After Hysterectomy 78

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t’s been one year and so much has changed. We never asked for prayers on Facebook or posted pictures on Instagram. Some of our closest friends and family don’t even have a clue. On March 29th, 2018 I woke up in a hospital room surrounded by my family. My surgery was a success, but life as I knew it was no longer.

There was no plan for this. Any vision we had for our lives was shattered. My endometriosis was gone, but so was my fertility. I was 34 and childless.

THE WORST DAY I’m sure some people may think that that was the worst day of my life, but they would be wrong. Six months before my surgery, I answered what I thought was a routine phone call from my gynecologist's office. For over a year, I received the same call after an ultrasound. “Your cyst is gone, but we’ve spotted another, go back in eight weeks.”

This time the voice on the other end was different and concerned. My ultrasound now showed something more, and something urgent. I needed to come in for a blood test immediately, and to speak with the doctor to discuss surgery. It was 11:30 a.m. on a Friday, and I was at work.

I’m not sure how I finished the day. I don’t remember how I pulled myself together, or when I actually stopped crying. What I do remember was the look of absolute fear on my husband's face when he picked me up at 3:40 p.m.

I work with children, and in all my preparation it never dawned on me that going back to work meant hurting in a way I had never felt before. The pain was intense, raw, and confusing. Physically I felt fine, but the tears wouldn’t stop and were impossible to hide. At one point a parent noticed, grabbed and hugged me as tight as she could and said, “It’s OK to not be OK." Words I try to remember on my very darkest days.

TIME HEALS The anxiety and depression would grow over the next few months. I can now say that it was easier to hide the physical pain than the emotional. I cry a lot, and sometimes I don’t even know I’m doing it until it’s too late. I remember reading a post from a well-known support group about “grieving the loss of your period” and thinking “yeah, right” - but it did happen. It occurred to me that I hadn’t had my period in awhile, and I felt panicked, and immediately was filled with that grief. Losing your fertility also means losing your hormones and menopause is no joke. There have been times that the sadness is so great that I feel like nothing will bring me back, until something does. Life goes on and those feelings are temporary. Hard to remember when you’re in it.

FINDING EACH OTHER AGAIN I’m not sure that I ever truly wanted to be a mother, but I wanted us to be parents. Watching him hold nieces and nephews used to fill my heart, but for now it aches with a hurt I never thought possible. Some days, I feel like I have cheated him out of something he was perfectly meant for, and then he kisses me and tells me I’m enough. After a year, I’m finally starting to believe him. In some twisted way, I feel like we are closer and more connected. Even in marriage, some of us still put up walls that may never come down. There are no walls anymore. No secrets, and no shame. I can say with confidence that he has seen me at my absolute worst. We’ve shown each other our most vulnerable versions of ourselves, and there is no unseeing it. I wouldn’t want to, it’s perfect. I needed him to be my everything and he was, and still is. I don’t know how having a baby would have changed our relationship. All I know is how terrible of a mother and wife I would have been had we chosen IVF. When you are in pain, when everything seems impossible, you go into survival mode.

My husband didn’t deserve me like that, he deserves the best version of me, and so would a baby.

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I remember every appointment, every blood test, every exam, and every ultrasound. Every time a nurse took more than three jabs to finally find a vein. The CT scans, the failed laparoscopic surgery, all of the doses of Lupron.

I remember all of it, but what I don’t remember is how I managed to hold it all together.

THE ONLY CHOICE The day we decided a hysterectomy was our only option, was also the day I stopped existing and started living. I was ready to stop being in pain. I wanted to enjoy a vacation without the fear of my period. To not go to work everyday without loads of medication in my purse. To not wince every time my husband touched me. I wanted to live, even if that meant never being a mother of my own biological children. The misery that was life became too much for me and I was ready. We met a brilliant gynecology oncologist who specialized in aggressive ovarian cancer and endometriosis. He was kind and knowledgeable, and only wanted to make sure we were sure. And just like that, my surgery was scheduled. It didn’t seem real. I went about my business like I was leaving on a vacation. I felt more at ease then I had in months. My very own “calm before the storm”.

The surgery was rough, and the physical recovery felt like it would never end. After six weeks I felt ready to get back to work and start moving, and within five minutes, I wanted to go home.

GROWTH I historically react very poorly to change, but for the first time in my life I’m welcoming it. In a year that brought too many lows, I’m excited for genuine highs. To finally be a participant in my own life, and stop sitting on the sideline. I look forward to a marriage built on hard choices and unconditional love, and to maybe someday welcome a child into this safe place we’ve built together. I’m ready for more... I’m ready to live. &

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Words by Holly Tucci Image by Markus Spiske via Unsplash

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Cultivating Your

n January 2015, I had my most recent heart surgery, one of many resulting from being born with a heart condition. It brought about a near-death experience, a very difficult recovery, and the inner knowing that I needed to do things differently from that moment if I was going to survive.

My weight nearly cost me my life.

That’s why when I now think of what it means to grow, I think of my personal journey of looking within. I get the image in my head of what it looks like tending to a garden and the significant amount of work, energy, care, and nurturing that is needed before even the smallest green sprout will ever emerge through the dirt. In the same way a gardener tends to their garden is how one must nurture their own heart, spirit, and soul to grow with the everchanging elements and challenges.

When I first set out on my journey to be my best self 14 years ago, I began in my own proverbial dirt. The first task was recognizing and acknowledging how depleted, exhausted, and depressed I was. I had been kidding myself for years, and now was the time to get completely real and true. I began asking myself questions such as, “Why was I

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feeling this?” and “What am I going to do to change it?”

I didn’t like what I saw. I didn’t like what I felt. I didn’t like the direction I was headed.

While there were a lot of things that led me to that depleted place -- being the martyr, putting others' needs before mine, and the continual need to please -- it was my own pain and comfort that kept me there, for more than a decade. Until I began to realize my depletion was impacting others and most importantly, me.

Emerging from the water of the Seattle Danskin Triathlon two years later, I remember the heaviness of my then-320pound body, going from horizontal and buoyant in the water to vertical, upright, and somehow needing to move forward. Feeling so very ugly, ginormous, and wondering why the heck I was doing this triathlon… but at the same time, I couldn’t imagine not doing it.

I felt shame and pride at the same time. But I wore the shame on my sleeve and felt pure dread. The anticipation of having to still bike 12 miles and then run-walk 3.1 miles felt awful. Yet I kept moving. What I knew for sure was I did not want to continue feeling what I felt that day. ›››

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Click here to purchase it from our shop. hollandlanemag.com/shop version of me so that I could feel like I was actually living There would be continued struggles, pain, sadness,

Personal Garden depression, and many dark days. There would also be happy moments and joyful days. It would not be for years to come that I would begin to look within and do the work.

The tools I learned through “process improvement” during my time working in project management would later become pivotal in helping my garden to flourish. Through this learning and application of new tools at work, I started to think about how I could apply these concepts to myself and asking, “How will I become better today?”

That question is how all of my inner growth has been primed ever since. Growth was something I had longed for, yearned for, and wanted more for myself. I knew I needed to do things differently, but I was not really sure how to begin. I knew I needed help. I needed to grow in a whole new way. I needed to do life differently. That’s what I did.

My new way of living originated with the focus on who I wanted to be and what I would grow into. I wanted to be healthy, so I began emulating healthy behaviors and actions each day. I wanted to think healthy thoughts, so I spoke words of love and affirmation to myself. I created todo lists, action plans, and journaled regularly in addition to working with my therapist. I wanted to be a WAY better

instead of just getting by.

I saw the damage I had done and its lasting effects. I also saw the possibilities I could cultivate. I began tending to my own garden. Envisioning a new me - a stronger, healthier, happier version of me brought a smile to my face.

I visited that image each day! I implemented my practice of self-care. Daily action, hard work, and focus helped me to nurture and sustain this new way of living. Everything I did was centered around growing the new me.

I was finally reaching up and out toward the shining sun.

Growth is ongoing and continual. To see it and feel it requires a practice of reflection. Just like a garden needs regular tending and care, so do we. As I crossed the finish line of my very first marathon, I felt myself growing with each step! I continue to reflect on the experiences I’ve had, and they often teach me new lessons when I look at them in a different light. As long as I am living, I will continue growing. Each day offers abundant opportunities to learn and grow, and the cool thing is that we get to choose what will make our own garden more beautiful and radiant! &

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A Lesson in Minding My Own Business

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Words & Image by Francine Diodati

catalyst for growth can happen in an everyday moment, in the smile of one little boy on a city bus.

The crowd was thick and unaccommodating as my son and I make our way onto the bus and to the one free seat left on it. He immediately turns himself around on the seat to look out the window, as I remain standing behind him, much to the disapproval of the woman seated beside him who looks over at him, and then to me, with a look - a scowl - I try hard to ignore it and my son does not notice. Once the window’s novelty fades, my son settles into some apple slices I have brought wrapped in hope - a hope that a favorite snack could help him tolerate sitting in his seat for the full length of the bus ride. The apples start to work their magic, and I sigh with relief.

A few blocks later, the bus comes to an abrupt stop and dislodges the bag of apples from my hand; something immediately noticed by my son, who at that exact moment, was ready to take his next slice. My hope cringes, as the absence of apples means that my son has been greeted by restlessness, which is quickly followed by frustrated whining and an arching of his back off of the seat. I precariously reach for the apples while trying to deflect a progression of glares radiating out from the woman whose feet they landed at. I feel my cheeks warm with the rush of blood to my head, but know that it is more to do with the fact that I have let the woman’s glares poke a hole in my confidence. Confidence which continues to leach

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quickly away from me as I come to see that her looks have spread to the faces of other passengers - that we are now that mom-kid duo that causes disruption to the status-quo on the bus. That we’ve asked people to step out of their commuter silos and make room for me to reach down to the floor for my hope-filled apples and to become aware of my son’s frustration. It paints my cheeks red, a red that turns crimson as it greets a doubt within me: Do I have what it takes to be his mother? A doubt I thought had taken the day off.

You see, I had left the house with a strong feeling of "I got this!" I got whatever traveling by public transit during rush hour with a three-year-old can bring; a three-year-old who will surely at some point along the way lay on the ground to act out his best limp noodle impression when he’s stopped from roaming freely into the middle of the street and who will want to explore every inch of the bus. A three-year-old that will not compromise his curiosity and will not for anyone, period. A trait I most admire but that also challenges me deeply. A challenge I felt prepared for today, but now feel I’ve failed, as I watch the remainder of my confidence exit at the next bus stop, alongside the glaring woman who had been sitting beside my son.

As I rest into the empty seat, I feel the space also start to fill with an anger that wants to shame the woman who was sitting here moments before; that wants to judge her scowls, her not offering her seat to me, her not helping pick up the apples. Who wants everyone on the bus to know that if she had been kinder, then there would be no scene and I would not be sitting here fighting off tears.

It takes only seconds for this story to roar through my head, for the anger to then immediately boomerang back to me with questions. Why didn’t you just ask for a seat? Why do you think you can ride the bus like everyone else?

My son clutches my hand a bit tighter as the bus hits a bump, and pulls my attention back to the sweet smile as he nudges his head against my arm to take another bite of apple. And that is when I realize that none of the glares on this bus had impacted him one bit and that I can make that same choice too. That I do not need to take any responsibility for what anyone on this bus is feeling about us and once I untangle myself from the story I am telling myself about their behavior, the suffering will make room for more compassion - it will turn into an invitation to grow.

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What about the story I am telling about their behavior resonates with some belief still living in hollandlanemag.com/shop me? How old do I feel right now? Suddenly I see myself as a little girl sitting on the bus with my son. I see a girl who was raised in a culture that taught her to measure herself against others. I see a girl constantly shrinking herself in order to make the people around her feel more comfortable.

I see a little girl who is used to giving the opinions and feelings of others more authority and importance over her own. I see that girl hurt by self-abandonment now wrapped up in the arms of a mother who is also abandoning herself. I see a mother not honoring the permission she gives her son to occupy space in the world just as he is, regardless of how others might classify him on a developmental scale. I see how each time she abandons herself like this, her son sees it, and it inherently holds a risk that her son may start to internalize a story with the glares, recreate suffering for himself too.

Despite the discomfort, I know the rawness in these moments is where I find the most selfcompassion, where I see most clearly how I can be quick to judge my feelings instead of honoring their seats on the bus. But also how with a subjective eye, I can learn to grow through the discomfort and not just survive it. It's at these intersections when I remember most clearly that what anyone else thinks about me or my son is none my business, and the more I make it my business the more I will suffer. And that this process of minding my own business needs to be met with a lot of grace, because my humanness means that I will get caught in other people’s business at times and bounce between feelings of "I got this" to feeling like a hot mess. That this process growing into a more compassionate relationship with myself and with what it means to be a mother of a child with a disability, is not linear. And all of that is OK. The bus carries on its way, the crowd thickening with each stop, right along with my love for this little boy siting beside me, my constant reminder of what it means to fully own and be present each moment, whatever way it might look. &

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Words by Eunice Brownlee Image by Anika Huizinga via Unsplash

My Velvet Rope

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henever I see velvet ropes, I think of all the fancy people that are allowed to see what’s on the other side of them. I correlate this image in my mind with exclusivity and permission. Not everyone gets to go behind the velvet ropes and not everyone deserves to be invited in.

I’ve started to think of boundaries as my personal version of a velvet rope.

I’ve never been good about saying no when I should, or not speaking up when I didn’t agree. I always wanted to be liked.

I always wanted to be agreeable. I didn’t want to be the girl that made everything more challenging for everyone else.

To describe me as a pushover would be accurate.

I was raised by a Southern woman who taught me how best to keep up appearances and avoid making waves. When things were good, you shared only enough to let people know that you had it together. More than that would be

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bragging and that was unbecoming. When things were bad, you pretended that everything was A-OK so that no one would know that you didn’t have it together. Don’t ever let anyone feel sorry for you.

My entire life, I said yes to things I wanted to say no to, I never told people how I really felt until I exploded in anger, and I was walking around carrying a lot of resentment in my heart. I was mad at the world for my feelings of discontent, but it took my parents’ divorce to make me realize that I actually had control over how others were treating me.

My parents divorced when I was 35. I haven’t figured out whether or not it’s harder to have your parents divorce as an adult or as a child. When you’re a child, your parents do everything they can to protect you from the pain. When you’re an adult, all bets are off. My siblings and I were square in the middle of the fallout as our parents’ 36 year marriage quickly unraveled. ›››

Both of my parents were horrible as they dissolved their marriage. My mom regularly spent her air time with me bashing my dad and telling me all of the things he was doing and what a terrible human being he was. My dad used his to explain why he was such a victim in all of this as well as why he had better sexual chemistry with his new girlfriend. (TMI, Dad, TMI).

have noticed when I came home for a visit that she no longer lived there. Her reasoning was that she didn’t want my dad to know that she was moving and she assumed I would be the one to tell him. I was so hurt that my mother would choose to punish me in such a cruel way that I decided to just disengage completely. I reasoned that she couldn’t hurt me if she couldn’t talk to me.

I would sit and listen to each of them for hours at a time, feeling a constant tug on my loyalty from side to side. Both of them would profess how much they didn’t want us to take sides and then launch into a spouse-bashing diatribe that made it clear that each of them hoped the side we would choose was theirs.

But after about six months, I began to doubt my decision.

What kind of a person cuts a family member out of their lives? Only the truly horrible ones, right? I knew I wasn’t horrible, but I also knew that having a relationship with my mother was hurting me. I was lost and confused, so I found a therapist and started talking.

It was exhausting. After a few weeks of this daily battle, I couldn’t take any more. For the first time in my life, I put up a boundary. I simply used the phrase, “I may be an adult, but I need you to remember that I am still your child.” It was my way of signaling that I didn’t want to participate in this feud and that my energy was spent.

As I rehashed the previous 24 months of my life, my therapist asked why I felt this obligation to my mother, who was clearly manipulating me for her benefit. I paused and considered the question.

“Well, because she’s my mother,” I answered finally.

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“So?”whole she said.

I looked her quizzicallyour and said, shop.

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Both of them had a similar reaction. At first, they retreated in shock. And then they pressed forward harder. This time, telling me bigger, more salacious details. He was so abusive. She was a controlling bitch. It was as though they both believed if they could make me see their side of the story, I could be swayed to join the alliance. And while I did see their respective sides, I also saw a little girl who was having the images of a strong mother and a loving father shattered.

The phrase, “I am still your child,” became a mantra that I repeated over and over until they both backed off. At this point, I was using it to convince myself that I was right not to get sucked into their mess.

About a year after the divorce, I started therapy. At this point, I had been estranged from my mom for the better part of a year and the guilt of cutting my mother out of my life so completely was overwhelming me. I had good reason for not wanting to talk to her–my mom had interpreted that the boundaries I was learning to set with her as me taking my dad’s side and she punished me for it.

When the opportunity came for her to move across the country with her job, she not only chose not to tell me, but she asked my siblings not to tell me either. As if I wouldn’t

The next thing she said will stick with me for the rest of my life— “If a relationship is hurting you, then you are under no obligation to participate. And if you do, it needs to be on your terms, not theirs.”

Wow. I had never once thought about having a different relationship with my mom than the one I had that wasn’t serving me. To put myself at the center seemed so incredibly selfish. I was being given permission to share only what I wanted to share and learning that I was not obligated to anything just because she gave me life.

I suddenly felt free.

It took a lot of time to modify the terms of our relationship, and my mom was not always accepting of my boundaries.

When I would put up the velvet rope, signaling that she was not allowed in to this part of my life, she would push harder to get in. But I learned to hold the boundary and stopped feeling guilty for doing so. &

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Growth Through Divorce Words by Amy Cook Image by Zoriana Stakhniv via Unsplash

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O

n a rainy day in late March of 2003, a brighteyed 22-year old girl stood in a sleeveless beige suit under a tree in the courthouse lawn and stared up at the man she was marrying. The man who was taking her two boys under his wings and offering up his place as a provider and father figure.

He was ten years my senior and I was absolutely smitten. I had decided that everything about marriage was going to be amazing. I had plenty examples of good and bad marriages.

Bad marriages were all around me in real life; my parents, my relatives, older friends, and coworkers had marriages that did not make me envious of the single girl lifestyle I had been living. Oh, but those marriages in books and on television and in movies‌ those were real. Those were legitimate. Those were the relationships that I was going to base my real-life romance on. I would be June Cleaver to my new husband. I would have the kids in bed when he got home from work late as a prison guard. The house would be spotless. I would be freshly showered, dressed and madeup so he found me and his home to be a place of solace and warmth. Leftovers? Not for my husband. After working my eight-hour shift as the manager of a clothing store, I would come home, prepare a dinner for the kids, leaving enough out that his meal would be prepared fresh and arrive on the table just as he did, with his evening cocktail. Then I would watch him eat, listen to him talk about his day, perhaps watch a sports game on television and then retire to bed to perform my wifely duties and start again in the morning.

This was my life for four years. This was what I envisioned for the remainder of my days. Making him happy because he took me and my boys and rescued us. I was the reacher and he settled. Or so I thought.

So I tried. In 2007, he was injured in an altercation at the prison and had to take a year off of work while doctors tried to repair the damage to his back. During this time, his alcoholism took a turn for the worse and he would start drinking earlier and earlier and with more ferocity.

By 2008, our daughter was old enough to start daycare and I decided I could not be stuck in the house with him and watch him drink and watch the same reruns of Seinfeld and Friends and music videos of late '80s and early '90s hip hop. Or even better was when he would put in the old VHS recordings of Michael Jordan and regale us with tales of his sporting prowess back in the day. He had peaked in the mid '90s and everything that happened to him after was part of the ruin of his life. He resented me, the kids, our home and anything new I tried to bring to the table. So I decided to go back to school. I enrolled in the local community college and worked on two associate's degrees in three years.

I learned that I had a special talent for teaching, specifically special needs students and enrolled in a university that took me an hour away from home four days a week. Do you know what I discovered? I was funny. I was interesting.

People valued what I had to say. I began mentoring other college students and won awards for my work in the community with underserved populations. I was growing.

And not just as a student but as a human. Ultimately, I was learning that I was also outgrowing my husband and my marriage.

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Our daughter was born in 2006 and it was around that time I realized that I could no longer keep up the Mary Sunshine facade I had spent four years creating. He was drinking more and angry about his job (being a prison guard is exhausting, both mentally and physically) and he felt I should try and be more understanding, but I was exhausted. It was also around this time that I realized my husband was straying outside of our marriage bed and, once more, it was chalked up to my being not understanding nor supportive, or not continuing the routine I had so carefully cultivated for the four years previous. Forget the fact that we had three children at home and I was running an inhome daycare to supplement our income, he wanted the life he had become accustomed to. I was to oblige. I was to figure out new ways to intrigue and mystify him and keep him happy and satisfied while he continued to do everything he had done since we met six years prior.

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What I had affectionately referred to as hero worship had turned to disdain. He was no longer the man that rescued me from a lifetime of single motherhood, now he was the man who kept me trapped, tried to limit my interactions with the outside world, refused to accompany me to awards ceremonies and other education events and discouraged me from attending them alone. He was seeing the new me and it did not fit into his life. No longer was I the mousy young girl who deferred to his opinion and requests, I was insightful and curious and hungry to learn more about what the real world had to offer and my new role within it.

This year, on what would have been my 16 year anniversary, I was served with divorce papers. I have a new job that I love and am constantly advancing in. I am living in a gorgeous home that my children and I helped to remodel.

I am active in my church and belong to two book clubs. I have several groups of friends with whom I travel, laugh, love, and grow as a mom and woman. I am so grateful for the marriage that I had and the years spent as a family. But I am excited to cultivate this version of me and see where this new life takes me. &

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Becoming My Own Bully Words & Image by Katia Navarro Alamรกn

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ver since I was a little girl, I would get bullied in school. It was either because of my looks, my body, or my love for math and school. They would always find something to tease me with and unfortunately each time I would believe what they were saying about me.

“Your face is so swollen.”

“How can you be so fat?”

“Nobody will ever like you.”

“You’re such a nerd, don’t you go out?”

“Your cheeks are way too big for your face.”

“Your eyes are way too small.”

I could go on and on about everything I was told, but I think you get my point. After a while these people left my life, I switched schools, and tried to start a new life, but those thoughts never left my mind. Those thoughts became a part of me and I became my own bully.

This bully would not let me live my life the way I wanted to. If I wanted to go out to a party or go out with people, my bully would tell me I looked horrible in the outfit I chose, that I shouldn’t leave my house looking like that. If I wanted to switch the way I dressed, my bully would say I looked ridiculous and would laugh at me for even trying. If I had a presentation at school and I had to speak in public, my bully would say I would stutter, people would laugh, and they would think I was stupid.

If I wanted to speak my mind, my bully would tell me that nobody cared about what I thought, that I shouldn’t waste their time with my stupid ideas. If I started to like someone, my bully would tell me that my body was disgusting, my face was unappealing, and my personality would bore the hell out of him. My bully ruled my life. She had so much more power than me, I felt like she was the puppeteer and she would move the strings and control my every movement and my every thought.

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Click here to purchase it from our shop. hollandlanemag.com/shop When I switched schools, I had mixed feelings because I finally had people that enjoyed my company and would reach out to me - not because I had the homework answers, but because they wanted to share their time with me. I was in a friendly environment where people would treat each other with respect, a place where I felt acknowledged and cared for, but my bully still had more power than me so she would still tell me they were doing that because they needed help in math, or they needed money or a ride to their house. I would never believe people actually wanted to spend time with me. During my high school years, I would test my friends over and over again, to see if they would abandon me when life was tough but they proved me wrong. They proved to me that I actually mattered and I was worthy of someone’s time and I loved them for that. During that time I started to gain strength and little by little it became easier to beat my bully. She was still there but I was able to cut some of the strings, so I had more power.

But even when I had more power, I would still seek love in others because I didn’t love myself. After so many years of external and internal bullies, I would still feel like I wasn’t enough and I wasn’t worth anyone’s time. I would look at myself in the mirror and out loud I would say mean things to myself, about my body, my looks, and my personality. I would tell myself what a piece of shit I was and how my presence would not affect anyone’s life. I would have depressive episodes where I couldn’t even get up from the bed and I had no appetite, but I also had days where I could do anything I wanted and I felt on top of the world. I would always take myself to the limit - I either had excellent days or I had "dark clouds over my head" days. As I started therapy and university I started to work on my emotions so that they would be in balance. I faced all my fears and confronted my bully face to face. So many times she won, and she made me feel like fighting against her was futile, but I never gave up.

Loving yourself is an everyday battle. There are days that I feel like I’m the most beautiful, strong, and powerful woman and there are days that I feel I shouldn’t have been born. I still have that bully that says mean things and sometimes I still listen to her, but the difference is that I’m choosing to fight against her. I’m getting stronger and better at fighting back and I know I will overcome this some day. But as of right now, I’m taking it one step at a time because I know that when I have that love for myself, and I stop looking for love in someone else, I will be able to do everything I haven’t done because I was afraid. &

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I

think I’ve always seen growth as the result of a successful separation between me and something heavy.

It’s the buoyant bounce back I experience after severing ties with something, or someone, toxic. Like some kind of mystical gravitational force, if the deadweight goes, I’ll wake up six inches taller (metaphorically).

So, with that mentality in mind, I entered 2019 ready to maintain some kind of balance at any cost. The end of the year had brought so much joy into my life.

A new relationship and a new job fell neatly into place, and I was both parts ecstatic and terrified. My comfort zone is somewhere between relentless chaos and crippling anxiety, this new, goldenlit existence was glorious and seemed impossible to maintain. I felt like my good fortune was akin to balancing a teacup on my head—soon I’d slip and there’d be broken porcelain all over the floor.

I turned neurotic equations over in my mind: if I slept more, I’d look better and think faster. If I lost weight, I’d be more desirable and taken more seriously in a visually driven industry. If I saved more money, I could spend more on the serums, exercise classes, hair treatments, and other things that I thought I needed to stay on track.

THE POWER TO JUST BE Words by Sami Ross Image by Jacalyn Beales via Unsplash

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Luckily for me, the media provided no lack of inspiration for what my natural next step could be. New year, better you?

Easy, order up a quick down and dirty Sober January.

Now, I don’t have a perfect relationship with alcohol, if that even exists, but it’s not the unhealthiest either. I’d say, me and the booze have our ups and downs, but overall there’s nothing much to write home about. Usually, after a night of over indulgence, my worst regrets tend to involve a bloated belly and bags so prominent under my eyes that the only thing missing is an Away Luggage stamp.

A night of vigorous sundae making leaves me in a similar state. However, maybe it was an easy scapegoat, but I became convinced that alcohol was the extra puzzle piece, the factory mess-up in my life’s otherwise perfect picture. ›››

There’s something so naïve about cutting something out on January 1st—especially a vice. When your final hours of a year are spent mixing icy-pops and vodka, you’re not very keen on a stiff drink the next morning. Eschewing the first happy hour of the year with an almond milk hot chocolate, I smugly imagined that my fine lines had already started to retreat.

That smugness was nipped right in the bud when I started my new job. Naturally, there were not one, but two, team happy hour events my very first week. Something about Sober January felt so private and personal to me. I didn’t want to draw attention to my health, which abstaining from drinking inevitably does, especially with new people. I had my flippant answers prepared at the ready as I sipped my lime and soda water and felt relieved, I’d only have to have these conversations for a month, versus the rest of my life. People who quit drinking forever are truly patient on a super hero level.

The reality was, when someone asked what motivated me to make the temporary sobriety shift, nothing I said sounded quite right. Yes, it was for better health, but…that “but” hounded me. I wasn’t ready to accept what really lay beyond that “but”, I just knew it wasn’t as sparkly and impressive as it seemed to the outside world.

There was a nagging thought in the back of my mind. Why was I doing this? What did I gain by losing that glass of wine? How was this experience elevating me? Did the removal of alcohol add value to my life or was this choice a reflection of something else?

I ordered fruit juices. I drank ginger ale at breweries. I celebrated happy hours with cups of coffee so I could keep up with my friends. There are plenty of delicious alternatives to alcohol in my progressive, health-conscious city, not to mention, the never-ending cycle of Sober January blog posts that I could commiserate with (or wonder about). Most doctors were indifferent towards a sober month.

Sure, drinking less alcohol is a wonderful choice at any time, but the health community is skeptical that one month of abstinence will really make a long-term difference. The tone on trendy wellness blogs tended to err on the side of alarming. It was a mix of dreary misery and unbelievable pay off.

These writers were certainly more unhappy than I was, however, they also seemed to be immediately experiencing the effects of sobriety that were evading me. I wanted glowing fairy skin, dammit!

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By week three,hollandlanemag.com/shop I had hit my wall. My partner was out of town for a party-hardy sports tournament.

It was a sobering weekend of separation anxiety mixed with the nerves of a new job routine. I didn’t drink, I didn’t even really want to, but what I felt was despair and shame within myself. I still weighed the same. I still had bags under my eyes. I was still sleepy and spacey and struggling with a five-day commute. Removing alcohol from my day-to-day life hadn’t had the magical effect I was hoping for.

I began talking about my sober month with a self-deprecating tone. When people expressed interest or were impressed with my commitment, I’d roll my eyes, shrug, and mock it. Towards the end of the month, I finally allowed myself a moment of true self-reflection. What had this experiment really been about? When I was honest with myself, I realized my commitment was seeped in self-loathing and fear. I didn’t deserve a lazy, hazy afternoon drinking beer with my friends—look at my waist line! I didn’t deserve a fancy cocktail after work with my coworkers—I hadn’t been promoted yet! My quest for growth and self-improvement was so lacking in pleasure, it was difficult for me to justify it at all.

While Sober January is behind me, the urge to remove and restrict myself still lives. I often catch myself thinking about doing another sober month, but when I ask myself why, I never have a positive reason. Would a sober month improve my relationships? Would it give me confidence? Would it lead to healthier behaviors? Or is it just a façade for my real issues, an easier space to hide behind than admit what really troubles me?

I’m working towards a new definition of growth. Instead of taking something away, I’m challenging myself to gain instead. Enjoy a silly moment without regret. Share a decadent meal with a loved one.

Leave work a little early to go to the beach. I’m curious to see what life looks like when I stop pushing and just let myself be. &

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In Recovery Words by Laura Connell Image by Jean-Luc Benazet via Unsplash

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I

had used alcohol since high school to ease my selfloathing. I remember the first time I drank, how the alcohol washed away my shame and led to blissful oblivion. I chased that feeling and looked forward to my next drink every day after that. Without alcohol, or the promise of it, I felt isolated and uncomfortable in my skin.

And every time I drank there were consequences I chose to ignore.

I married young and my husband protected me, enabled me, denied I had a problem, until he divorced me. Facing life alone seemed too hard and alcohol made me feel better temporarily – sexier, more confident, willing to take risks.

But I’d wake up unable to remember where I left my car, late for work, head pounding, an empty wallet, and sometimes, an injury. Not to mention the crushing burden of guilt and shame that clung to me. Only alcohol chased the shame away, but alcohol created the actions that caused the shame in the first place. The poison and cure came in the same bottle.

I had lost so much in the divorce - husband, home, family, friends, financial security – and I feared I might lose my home if I kept wasting money while I was drunk. My drinking had scared me enough that I decided to stop.

I white-knuckled my way through without my crutch,

having no idea how to live alcohol-free. I must have known the plan was unsustainable but I kept it up for five months.

The insufferable flatness of my life without alcohol became more than I could bear. I looked forward to nothing, sequestered in my home, fearful of going out to parties or social events where alcohol might be consumed. Rather than clearing my mind, abstinence produced in me fog and depression. I found it difficult to focus on anything like a book or a television program and failed to feel basic emotions like joy, sadness or surprise. I craved alcohol but was afraid to drink. My refusal to speak to anyone about my plight intensified my loneliness and made me feel like an automaton going through the motions of life. I had put myself in an impossible situation.

Drinking had pervaded my every thought during my fivemonth drought. I didn’t know yet my drinking was bigger than me, a monster I kept in a box. I sat on the lid and the beast’s head pushed underneath me, insisting on its rightful place in my life. I thought I had the beast under control.

Then, I went out and relaxed my seat muscles and the beast emerged. I gave into a glass of wine, unable to converse without the stem of a goblet between my fingers. I ordered white because I liked it less than red so underestimated its power. Like cheating with someone you’re not so keen on.

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Soon, I returned to buying bottles of red wine – never more than one at a time – to drink by myself at home. At the end of a week, I stunned myself by counting ten bottles stacked under the kitchen counter, all of which I’d drunk on my own. Too embarrassing a number to display in the curbside recycling container, I hid them in garbage bags which I carried out to the bin under cover of night, soft-shoeing to avoid the tell-tale clank of glass on glass. A card-carrying member of Greenpeace, my stewardship got sacrificed at the altar of my alcohol addiction. *** I pushed the beige cork back in the top of the wine bottle after consuming half its contents.

“See, you can stop,” I said to myself, admiring the halfempty bottle. “You can drink like a normal person.”

Then, I watched myself pull out the stopper and pour another glass, then another, until it was gone. The presence of the red liquid made it impossible for me to think of anything else. When it came to drinking, I’d made excuses (as had others on my behalf ) to justify my overindulgence, normalize it. Inside the protective walls of an upper middleclass marital home, I had no reason to face my addiction.

Anytime I asked my husband or friends if they thought I drank too much they would reassure me I did not. But that night, after having struggled through five months without a drink and still unable to conquer my obsession, I faced the truth. “Why can’t I stop?” I asked, as tears of frustration welled.

I lay in bed, surrounded by blood-red walls, painted to create romance but instead inspiring drama in a place meant for rest. I felt the weight of my headache and refused to justify or minimize the pain that had become integral to my morning ritual. Rather than jump out of bed, reach for the Advil (taken throughout the day, and used pre-emptively while drinking), I determined to feel the truth of my pain.

I found it hard to imagine living without something to reduce this ache to a manageable ball in my hands.

I leaned across the bed and dragged the Yellow Pages onto my lap. With shaky hands, I thumbed through to the page with the listing I sought, the one I never thought I’d call and always knew I would, the one Craig Ferguson described as near the front of the phone book in his monologue for the Tonight Show. Locating the number provided relief and horror, the promise of something new and a familiar homecoming.

I punched the digits into the phone and waited while it rang.

The machine answered and I left my name and number and a message that I needed help. Within minutes my phone rang and when I picked up a woman’s gentle voice filled my ear with the unfamiliar sound of compassion. She told me I was brave and this might be the most important call I ever made. She asked me if I could admit I was powerless over alcohol. Grateful to confess what I had known for so long, I held back from blurting out, “Duh – why do you think I called?”

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“Yes,” I said instead, finished covering up and lying. I knew I had nowhere left to go.

I stood behind the wall hollandlanemag.com/shop separating my kitchen and dining room in the townhouse where I had lived for the past year since my marriage ended. I had to acknowledge I was addicted to alcohol and needed help. I was empty of excuses and no one was there to talk me out of it.

My bottom was not the dramatic nadir of a movie screenplay.

No one cornered me in a room to stage an intervention. I received no ultimatum from an employer about entering a facility to dry out. Mine was the high bottom of many middle-class women, an emotional one, and I faced it alone.

“You may have all the willpower in the world,” I said to myself. “But you can’t stop drinking.”

I woke with a hangover and the familiar dread of having polished off another bottle of wine by myself. I would drink anything in the house, so I limited myself to one bottle at a time, rotating liquor stores so no one noticed a pattern.

If I had had two bottles of wine in the house, I would have drunk them both. If I had had ten bottles, I would have drunk them, too. The desire for more alcohol began the moment I started drinking. The first sip of wine got me thinking about the next glass. The desire for more never satisfied.

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“Well, Laura, she said “that’s the first step in your recovery.”

*** I’ve been sober for almost ten years now. Thanks to my recovery program, I learned to surrender control over my life to a higher power. Letting go sounds easy but it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I made amends with people I had wronged and wrote a searching and fearless moral inventory which I read out loud. I learned that revealing secrets robs them of their power.

The constant drum of anxiety that used to terrorize me has been replaced with a peace and a trust in something bigger than me, a force I can access any time through prayer.

Asking for help was humbling but necessary. I found out drinking was the symptom of a larger problem. I grew up in a family that refused to deal with emotions, then married into one that forced me to suppress how I felt. I spent my life being punished for expressing emotions and learned to repress them in order to survive. I’m still working through my issues but now I do so with honesty and selfcompassion, a clear head, and no more denial. &

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Write With Us These journal prompts are for you and your words. Your stories, your voice, are so important and we want you to take the theme from this issue and make it your own. In our digital version, you can type directly into these prompts on your computer.

1. What has been the period in your life where you have changed the most?

2. Fill in the blank: When I’m not growing, I feel _______.

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3. Right now, today, are you where you thought you’d be in life? Why or why not?

4. What is an area in your life that you hope to continue to grow in?

5. Write a letter to the person who has helped you grow the most (even if it’s yourself !) thanking them.

These journal prompts are brought to you by illuminate, our monthly writing program shining a light on the creative within. Learn more at illuminatewriting.com

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ISSUE 20 : GROWTH 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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