Grief.

Posting back on this blog has been weighing heavily on my heart for awhile, and I feel called to share some words and ideas. 

Writing is cathartic for me, and I used to post on this little blog all the time in college. 

Since July, I've been dedicated to quiet time with the Lord each day, and as much peace as it's given me, it's also made me realize that I still have so much to walk through. As I grow closer to Jesus and He reveals more parts of His heart to me, I find myself asking how I can serve. Brian and I do not yet have the means to give financially the way we'd like to, so I've been praying about how to serve and bless others, and I feel that gentle whisper continue to say "use your words." If you're a Christ follower, then you know what I'm about to talk about next - doubt. 

The moment you decide to obey, you're met with voices trying to talk you out of whatever it is you decided to do:

• This is dumb. 
• No one will read it. 
• No one cares. 
• Who writes blog posts anymore?
• You started this when you were 19, it's time to move on to bigger and better things. 

But I cannot ignore this anymore, and as our pastor likes to remind us constantly, if even one person comes to know the Lord and His Word, then all of heaven rejoices. My biggest prayer is that this resonates with at least one person. 

As believers, I think we often shy away from the ugliness of grief. So much of the Christian faith is just that- having faith. Faith that God is in control. Faith that God is working all things out for our good. It's about peace that surpasses all understanding. But we often fail to talk about how much grief hurts. Grief is not a paper cut sized pain; it is a knees-buckling-I-can-hardly-breathe kind of pain. 

You can grieve a phase of life, grieve what could have been, and grieve a loved one who has died. For me, it's the latter. 

I thought things were tough when I was planning a wedding and was hit with the realization that my dad wouldn't be there. This past September marked 21 years since my dad died, and to be honest, I haven't really been OK since. I'm in a season of grief that I haven't experienced in quite some time, and it hit me out of left field. You see, grief doesn't care how well things are going. Grief doesn't care how happy you should be. I think a lot of it is because I'm in a transitional phase of life in that I'm adjusting to what it means to be part of a "we" and not just "me" in a marriage. And anyone who has gone through this newlywed season knows it comes with its own joys and challenges. I just didn't think grieving my dad would be one of them. 

Grief has many forms, both as an emotion and how people act while grieving.

Grief can be angry. 

Grief can be sad. 

Grief can be harsh.

Grief can be cruel. 

Grief can be insensitive. 

Grief can be "too sensitive."

Grief can be laughter.  

Grief can be numbing. 

Grief can be wanting to stay in bed all day. 

Grief can be lonely. 

Yes, we're supposed to find joy in all circumstances, but there are some things you just don't want to find joy in. Sometimes you need to sit in whatever form grief has taken that day and just let it be because that last form of grief- the loneliness- it's the worst form of grief. Unless you've grieved the loss of someone very close to you, you tend to not understand it. (And boy, are those of us grieving 1. Jealous of you, and 2. So grateful that you do not experience this pain.) People who haven't walked through this emotion often tell you to "Get over it," or remind you that its been ___ number of years and you should have moved on by now. But here's the thing . . . you don't move on from grief. You can deny it. You can sweep it under the rug to deal with later, but grief is always with you, and the more you brush it off, the more likely it is appear in bigger ways. 

After a certain amount of time since someone has died, you may feel like you can't talk about that person anymore because you don't want people to get sick of you grieving and being sad all the time. You don't want to be "the sad friend" or bring the group down, but that is completely the enemy whispering lies in order to isolate you. There's that loneliness again, rearing its ugly head. When we are isolated and lonely, we are vulnerable, and that is exactly where the enemy wants us. 

I don't really know why I'm stuck in this season of grieving. Perhaps it's coming to the realization that the man I've chosen to spend the rest of my life with will never know my dad, and it some small way it feels like he won't ever know all of me because he doesn't know half of me. The comforting answer is that Brian does know my dad in our family's weird sayings, in my love for reading, in bits and pieces of my mom and sisters' personalities, but that doesn't bring me much comfort right now. 

Right now, I'm not so OK, and that's OK. This season will pass eventually, and I know that. Right now, I choose to sit in it. 

I am still committed to my quiet time, and I will continue to seek Him and pray through this season, but God created us to be humans with emotions, so I know He's OK with me sitting in this season as long as I continue to seek Him. 

Sitting in grief does not mean that I wallow constantly. What it does mean is that if I hear, see, or smell something that reminds me of my dad, I will allow myself to be sad if sadness crops up. I will allow myself to be angry that he isn't here. I will allow myself to question why things happened this way. 

For those of you grieving, please know you're not alone. Grief is cyclical; it comes and goes. Please know you're being prayed for, and you have a God who wants to hear your heart. As much as you are allowed to sit in the grief, confide in Him because He finds joy in building a relationship with you. 

If you need a friend, I would be honored to be that friend to pray specifically for you or to listen to you. 

Smile, God loves you!

Listen to your body.

This is probably me oversharing, but I'm a millennial, so let's just play into the stereotype for this post. 

It's no secret that I'm dramatic. I'm the youngest of four and being dramatic is just who I am. My anxiety also manifests itself in being a hypochondriac.

My mom's response to my hypochondria was always "You're the expert on your body. If you need to see a doctor, see a doctor." 

Even as an adult, people always say to listen to your body. Well, I thought I had, but apparently other people didn't want to listen. 

In June of 2017, after sharing concerns with my gynecologist, she begrudgingly ordered an ultrasound where they found a mass on my left ovary. Cysts are not new to me--I had my first one rupture at 14. However, cysts are typically fluid filled, not solid. My mom came to the follow up appointment with me, and I left in tears. The doctor essentially told me that the formation of this solid mass was my fault due to lifestyle choices. When my mom and I brought up PCOS or endometriosis, things that are in our family history, we were again dismissed and I was made to believe that I had somehow caused my body to form this mass. We were advised to take the "watch and wait" approach due to my age. I was told they "could" operate, but there was a strong chance I'd lose my left ovary, something that is scary to hear at 24 years old.

In December 2017, I saw a different doctor who ordered a CT scan. The scan revealed that the mass hadn't grown, but they did note a small cyst on the right side. Again, I was told to watch and wait. When I mentioned the pain I was in each month, I was told to continue taking advil because "most women are in pain each month." 

After getting on my own health insurance in January of this year, I researched local gynecologists and found one with excellent reviews. I saw the PA at the office in July and finally felt like someone saw and heard me. She asked if I'd been in pain and if I'd like something stronger than advil for the pain. I declined because honestly, at this point I was used to it. An ultrasound revealed that the cyst on the right had grown to 7cm, and I was asked to come back in 6 weeks. In August, the cyst had grown to 9.5cm and the doctor recommended surgery for removal, and I was prescribed a low-level pain pill. 

I, of course, initially declined the surgery. It wasn't until the doctor came in and said she would recommend her own daughter get the surgery that I took her seriously. After consulting my mom, I scheduled the surgery for Thanksgiving break since I didn't want to miss work. 

God, and my body, had other plans. After a 6 hour ER visit in September in which my doctor believed my ovary twisted on itself and untwisted again, the surgery was moved up to yesterday, October 29th.

At my pre-op two weeks ago, I was informed that my surgeon wanted to remove both the large cyst and the solid mass. When I brought up my concerns about losing one ovary, she told me she completely disagreed with the other doctors I had seen and she was confident she could preserve both ovaries. 

Yesterday was the big day, and upon going in to remove both the cyst and the mass, the surgeon found both ovaries covered in endometriosis, and the solid mass on my left side was an endometrioma- a mass filled with endometrium. The pain I'd been experiencing for years wasn't "normal." The pain was legitimate and there was a cause behind it. I have a family history of endometriosis and nothing I did (or didn't do) caused it. 

My doctor said she is so glad we went in when we did. Although not life-threatening, endometriosis can cause some serious problems and can cause infertility if left untreated, and if it had continued to grow, we would be looking at some other complications. 

I am so grateful to this doctor and her insistence on surgery and her professional opinion. Although I'm sore and in pain from being pumped full of carbon dioxide, it is such a relief to hear that I wasn't overreacting to this pain for so long. I'm so excited to get through this week of recovery and go on to hopefully be pain free(ish) moving forward. 

I'm blessed by a mom who works in the medical field and can translate "doctor speak" into something I can understand. I'm blessed by a fiance who has been an excellent nurse these last two days. Let's just say it's a good thing he wants to marry me because he can't un-see anything from these last two days ; ).  I'm thankful for an incredible support network of family and friends who are also co-workers and are taking good care of this anxious teacher's kiddos. 

Standing Up.

If I'm honest, things lately have just felt...complicated, and a lot of that is wrapped up in going back to school. 

Last year I lost my teaching fire. It was a combination of a lot of things, but every day I just went home never feeling like enough. I didn't feel enough in my classroom, in my relationships with students, and in the reviews/feedback I was given. There were a few weeks back in March where I truly thought I wouldn't return to the classroom. 

And that terrified me. 

I know everyone says that you shouldn't let teaching be part of your identity, but I'd like you to find an educator who can honestly say that they keep their identity separate from their career. 

So feeling like I wouldn't return to my classroom--the one place where I felt like I truly belonged--was heartbreaking. I had no idea what I was going to do. 

Through prayer and grace, I decided to step down from a leadership position, and that helped lighten the load. 

My focus for year 5 was that I wanted to get my fire back. It is my last year as Ms. Rivard before I gain a new last name (and so much more) next summer. I feel at home in my classroom, but second guess a lot of other aspects of my teaching career. I realized that last year I spent so much time worrying about the administrative side of teaching that I didn't have the bandwidth to focus on my relationships with students--my very reason for teaching. I vowed that this year would be different. 

Imagine my disappointment when I'd been summoned for grand jury duty back in June. My reporting day was today. If selected, I would have to miss two days of work a month for six months. I thought, "Really, God? I’m trying to get my fire back and now you're saying I could miss 12-13 days of work? How am I going to create these relationships with my students if I'm not there?" 

It may seem silly, but I lost sleep over this. My anxiety has already been bad with going back to work and adjusting to the new school year, to add that stress on top...my brain just couldn't settle down at night. I was so worried when I showed up for jury duty this morning. As they began to describe our responsibilities, they said we'd hear several murder cases, rape cases, and child abuse/child sexual abuse cases. I was freaking out in my seat. I can watch the occasional crime show, but the child abuse/child sexual abuse had my heart racing. 

I know what triggers my PTSD, and I was triggered. I knew I would never be able to make level headed responses in situations where children and other victims were involved. I just kept sitting there thinking "I trust you, God. I trust you." 

The judge began to ask for hardship excuses such as being a sole provider for a family member who is dependent, health concerns, etc. I texted Brian during the break, and he told me I needed to speak out about my PTSD. 

Now, my close family and friends know the true inner-workings of my PTSD, and I can sit behind a computer screen and talk about it because I'm not looking at anyone, but to tell other strangers...? (Did I mention you had to stand in front of a selection panel of 13 people and a room full of 100+ others?) No. Thank. You. I told Brian that my PTSD wasn't a hardship and God would help the panel make the right decision. 

As I sat in my seat, my heart was pounding and I was shaking uncontrollably. The next thing I knew, I was standing up to go up front. 

There are about two distinct times in my life that I can say the Holy Spirit moved through me and pushed me forward, and today marks the third. 

I stood in front of the panel and 100+ other people and said that I had PTSD from a childhood trauma, and I was concerned about the nature of the crimes and the impact they would have on my mental health and my ability to make sound judgments. The judge said she worked in the mental health division and applauded my self-awareness. Just like with everyone else who explained a hardship, she said that she would take my concern under advisement. 

I was shaking and in tears. That is hands down probably one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. 

I was excused by the grace of God. 

Now, is there a chance I still would've been excused had I not stood up? Yes, but I think God used this entire experience to teach me a lesson. Sometimes I don't need to fight so hard or wait for some "sign" about something. In this scenario, He used my PTSD for something good that helped calm me. He is so, so good to me. 

Because my dad was an attorney and later a judge, I was missing him something fierce through this whole process. I wanted to know exactly what would be expected of me. It's hard enough planning the wedding without him, so this was another layer. 

I came home to flowers from Brian. He told me how proud he was of me for doing something I was so afraid of, and he was proud I stuck up for myself. These beauties can be seen here: 

Do you see the one flower that isn't like the rest? My dad used to give my mom, my sisters, and me yellow roses. My sisters each had one in their wedding bouquets, and I will have one in mine. I asked Brian if he requested the yellow rose. He said no and he hadn't noticed it until getting the flowers into the car. When he saw it, he smiled, just like I did. 

Not only was God beside me and walking with me today, my dad was too. 

Grief.

Grief is a funny emotion. It's funny in its complexity and its fluidity.

Grief is complex and fluid because it never goes away. When you're grieving and someone tells you that "it gets easier," the "it" they're referring to is life moving on. Day by day it gets a little easier to continue on in life without that person. However, grief itself never gets easier. It ebbs and flows, but it is always there.

Grief can hit you in the happiest of times because joy is a vulnerable emotion. If you've ever lost a loved one, you know that you can experience one of your happiest moments (like your boyfriend proposing) and feel exuberant joy, and within seconds there is a part of you that is sad and lonely.

The vulnerability of joy is why I'm writing this post about grief. Brian proposed just over two weeks ago. As we celebrated with each other and with our friends and family, I couldn't help but think that parts of me were missing- my dad, my grandma, and my grandpa. But grief turned it's ugly head and I pushed those emotions to the side to continue on with the celebrations.

It wasn't until Saturday when we looked at a venue and the manager kept mentioning the things my dad would do that I realized a part of me wasn't OK. "When your dad sees you in your dress..." "When your dad walks you down the aisle..." "When you do the father/daughter dance..."

Over the last 20 years I've grown accustomed to people assuming my dad is alive and well, and I can typically brush those comments to the side. I know this person only had the best of intentions as they made those comments, but it immediately turned me off to having my wedding there. I didn't realize it until later that evening when talking about why I wasn't so sure about that venue that I put two and two together.

The truth is, I accepted long ago that my dad wouldn't be able to do those things, but I thought my grandpa would. He was alive for my sisters' weddings, and I always assumed he'd be around for mine. I assumed he'd be the one to walk me down the aisle alongside my mom; I assumed he'd do the father daughter dance with me. And because grief is fluid, it swallowed up grieving the both of them and resulted in anger, frustration, and disappointment.

As I sit and try to think of ways to honor those I've lost on my wedding day, it just barely begins to fill the void. Even honoring them is a reminder of their absence.

Almost every married couple tells me and Brian to relax and enjoy this season because it's such a sweet season. As much as I want to do those things (and I will do those things), it's also a hard season because it's a constant reminder of three people I don't have with me.

I find myself not wanting to think about other venues because I don't want to deal with the assumptions. But I will deal with them. I will smile and nod my head as if my dad will be there to see me in my dress, walk me down the aisle, and dance with me because it's just easier that way.

I know the answer most people want to give is that my dad, grandma, and grandpa will be there with me in spirit, and believe me I know that, but it doesn't make it any easier.

I don't know what this season of engagement hold for me and Brian. I am excited for us. I am excited to start my life with someone who loves me so well. But at the same time, it's all just very bittersweet. If you're in a grieving season, just know that you're not alone.

Smile, God loves you!

Finding the bless in the mess.

It has been a HOT minute since I've written on this blog, which is odd considering writing is typically my life line. 

When I reflect on why I haven't spent much time writing on here, it's because I realize I've been a bit busy living and enjoying life...something I wasn't so good at in past years. 

If you've stuck around this blog for awhile, here's a look at what my year- end post for 2016 was like (click here). I always enjoying seeing what past Victoria has to say, because current Victoria can tell her that she was so wrong. 

If 2016 was about saying "yes" to new challenges and experiences, then 2017 was even more so a year of "yes!" I said in last year's blog post that my word for 2017 would be "confidence," and initially I thought "Well that didn't go so well," but in truth, I have become more confident in who I am as a person. 

I would say that 2017 has shown me that God's plan is always, always, always infinitely better than anything I could come up with on my own. 

Let's flashback to 17-year-old Victoria ringing in 2010 with best friends and what her plan was...
- Graduate high school with a first love
- Go to a small liberal arts college/university
- Marry her high school sweetheart
- Have said marriage at 22
- Become a psychologist
- Have her first baby at 25

The only thing on that list that went according to "plan" was the first item, and that unraveled in its own hot mess three years later. Instead of a small liberal arts school, I went to the University of Georgia (the finest institution in all the land I might add), broke up with that high school sweetheart, became a middle school teacher, was single at 22, and is unmarried at 25. I always felt this insane pressure to stick to the plan, and God threw every bit of it out the window and made it into something that glorified Him. Every set back, every breakdown, every "oh crap, now what?" moment was met with His goodness and His faithfulness and His "I have something better in mind." And I'm slowly learning to be OK with that.

In my years following college, also known as "adulting," I've realized that planning is slightly futile. I really do think God hears our plans and let's out a good chuckle. 

Now when people ask me about plans, I channel my inner Phoebe Buffay and I respond with "I don't even have a 'pl'," much less a plan. Sure, I have a mental picture of how I'd like things to go, but I really have no idea, and I'm *slowly* learning to be OK with that. 

Currently I'm in a state of transition. I'm about to move out of the only place I've ever lived in other than my mom's house and UGA Housing- cue all the feels. I'm moving in with some friends until I am established enough to get a place of my own. A blind date back in March turned in to something more (I won't get too cheesy or Brian might kill me ; ]). Teaching middle school is always insane. 

Change has always been a trigger, and right now change is abundant. Rather than freak out, I'm trying to ride the waves and find the bless in the mess. Because isn't that what life is about? Things are always messy, but finding the little blessings is what makes it all worth it. 

It took 3 years post-grad to have an established community, and I'm blessed to work with my best friends and "my people" out here. I still had an annual girls trip to Charleston with those 3 ladies I rang in 2010 with. 

2017 brought a new love, strong friendships, a trip to Charleston, Oktoberfest, a day trip to Chattanooga, a 36 hour trip to Disney World, a trip to Nashville, new students, free concerts, an SEC Championship (I would be remiss not to mention that), and endless laughs. 

I know that every new stage of life will bring its own challenges, but I pray I always remember to find the bless in the mess. 

Smile, God loves you!

"What, like [teaching] is hard?"

Fun fact- In 7th grade, for "I wish I was day," I was Elle Woods. Meeting Reese Witherspoon is on my bucket list. Some people say I need a better bucket list; I don't care. 

Summer break is coming to a close, and right now these last days of freedom feel like one loooooong Sunday evening. I get extremely anxious as summer ends, as I think most teachers do. Now that I have three years under my belt, I don't feel like a newbie anymore. I am at home in my classroom, I can make parent phone calls without feeling like I'm going to vomit (most of the time), and my skin has gotten *slightly* thicker. The anxious feelings I had going in to my first year of teaching are very different than the way I feel going in to this year. 

Going in to teaching for the first time, I felt a bit like Elle Woods. People told me it'd be hard, and student teaching proved that point. But I was going to conquer all of the tasks, grade assignments in less than 24 hours, attend every meeting with a smile, handle parent conferences with ease, and be the best dang teacher on the planet. 

What my first year of teaching really looked like: me crying. A lot. I cried on the first Friday of school because a student somehow managed to get a county pre-test out of my classroom. I cried because a student called me a bitch. I cried because a parent was upset with me. I cried when parents asked if I was really qualified for my job, after all, I "didn't look old enough to have a college degree," although they could check my student loan status and be sure of that one. I cried in front of my assistant principal. I cried out of frustration, anger, and disappointment. 

Despite all of that crying though, I learned a lot. 

I learned very quickly that the longest stretch of time is between Labor Day and Thanksgiving in the fall. The longest stretch of time in the spring is from MLK weekend to Spring Break. 

I learned August is the longest month where 12 hour days are common. May is the craziest month filled with almost daily happy hours. 

I learned that it isn't worth it to buy Ticonderoga pencils unless you're the only one using them. Those suckers aren't cheap and you will lose almost every.single.one. 

I learned I can distinguish a student's voice and call them out when I have to turn my back for a split second. I've been asked multiple times if I have cameras in my classroom. 

I learned that I would say things and use phrases I never thought were part of my vocabulary. "Stop licking your pencil." "Keeping paper in your pants is not an acceptable organization system." "No, farting in his eye will not cause pink eye." 
Y'all. I teach 8th grade, not elementary school. 

I learned that 8th graders are complicated and emotional beings that lash out and that I'm often an easy target. It's not as "uncool" to take out their anger/frustration/hurt on their teacher as it would be to cry in front of their peers. I can't tell you how many times a day I say "that wasn't about me. That wasn't about me" because it's the only way to cope. 

I learned that peeing is a luxury, especially during testing. Teachers complain about this because it's real. 

I learned that teachers do A LOT of paperwork. 

I learned how to un-jam a copy machine quickly and without kicking it. It's not uncommon for me to tell my students that their papers are messy because I got in a fight with the copy machine that morning. 

I learned how to say "no" and how to ask for help, and those are two of the most valuable things I learned in that first year of teaching. 

I learned that teaching IS, in fact, hard. That's the reason I'm anxious to go back each year. I know the stress. I know that long and sleepless nights are ahead of me. 

However, the most important thing I learned, is that the people you work with make or break your job. I work with awesome people. I work with my best friends. After all, nothing can forge a friendship faster than being in the trenches of teaching middle school students together. 

In three years of teaching, I've learned about grace. I've learned that if I give my students a warning that I'm having a bad day, they're often more understanding than if I simply lose my cool with no explanation. 

I've learned that eventually, everything WILL get done, even in May. 

I've learned that not everything needs to be graded, but if the students took time to complete it, I can take time to look at it. 

I've learned that there is an excuse for EVERYTHING. If an assignment is due online, I can count on about 15 excuses of "my wifi quit working," or "our power went out." The latter is my favorite considering I live in the same area my students do and surprisingly it didn't storm last night. 

I've learned that laughter is the best medicine. If a student says something funny and it won't completely derail your lesson, it's OK to laugh. I've had to excuse myself from my classroom to get myself together. It happens. We moved on. 
Laughter boosts any mood. I laugh at myself, my coworkers laugh at the ridiculousness that happens on a daily basis. 

I've learned that most problems teachers face during the day can be alleviated by a good vent session, chocolate, and maybe some wine. 

No, it isn't easy. Yes, it is hard, but I also couldn't imagine doing anything else with my life. Cheers to summer 2017, may all of the teachers out there enjoy their last few days of freedom and remember why we go back to this crazy profession every year. 

So long, 2016...

I cannot believe 2016 comes to a close tonight. I remember my grandpa saying that time flies more as you age, and I can agree with that. It feel like life is flying by, but this year, I can honestly say that I'm living it as it goes. 

Like everyone, I have regrets. One of the biggest things I regret is not experiencing enough in college. I'm not talking the typical "experimenting" some people do, because that's just not my style. I feel like freshman year I went and did things, but when sophomore year rolled around and I was in a long distance relationship I let so many opportunities pass by. Athens is an eclectic city full of music and culture and so many free opportunities to experience those things, and I always said "no." I could come up with any excuse- I had to study, I was working, I didn't feel well, etc.  I let excuses define me, instead of experiences. 

I've written on here multiple times about how my diagnosis in February of PTSD helped me find freedom, and I can't say it enough. I can't put into words how confusing, frustrating, and infuriating it is to feel like no one understands. When I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), I sometimes felt like I needed to make my anxiety fit into the boxes that describe GAD, rather than the other way around. It hurts to feel like a crazy person, and I did. I didn't understand why change made me lose it, or why I regressed so much when I was upset. I couldn't name my emotions; all I knew was that I felt like a young teenager whenever something big happened. I always felt out of place in my life, and that stinks. 

With the PTSD diagnosis I finally felt like my symptoms fit into those "boxes." I relived A LOT this year: being there when my dad died, finding my grandmother the morning she died, losing grandpa, and the other trials and tribulations that come with growing up. In reliving those things I was able to name emotions with the emotional knowledge & understanding of a 24 year old. Reliving these things meant feeling them, and God bless my friends & family for sticking by me. 

This year was about saying "yes." I said "yes" to running a half marathon with Jackie-- something I NEVER thought I would do in my lifetime (and truthfully didn't have much of a desire to do). This lead to me realizing I actually enjoy running, and it's something my sister and I can do/talk about together (and complain, whine, etc. : ]). I said "yes" to counseling again, which lead to that freedom of a new diagnosis. I said "yes" to new opportunities at work, which although some didn't work out the way I wanted, I still learned from. I said "yes" to mountain weekends, new scenarios with friends where I only knew 1 person. And finally, I said "yes" to Chicago with my best friends. There is SO much more between those highlights, but they're just the tip of the iceberg. 

It breaks my heart to go on social media and see so many people saying how horrible 2016 was and how much they can't wait for it to be over. In some ways, I think losing my dad and suffering that trauma at 6 helped me to realize at a young age that life will suck. It will throw you curveballs and leave you crying in a ball on the floor feeling like you're the size of an ant, but there's also so much good in this life. Terrible things happen every day, but there is comfort in the beauty of a "laughing until you cry" moment, or remembering someone who is gone, in finishing a good book, in sleeping in late. They may be small things, but they're what make this life worth living. They're the things that keep us going for one more day, even when it hurts. 

I'm not one for resolutions, but I do believe in goals. A year ago, God put the word "PERSIST" on my heart, and that became my word for the year. I had no idea how much that word would encompass all this year held for me. The word God has placed on my heart for 2017 is "CONFIDENCE," something I'm certainly lacking. I can, however, start 2017 with the confidence in knowing that I can get through whatever this crazy life throws at me. 

Smile, God love you!

Dear Governor Nathan Deal...

As an educator, I tell my students to do the right thing, and I try to model that for them. I encourage them to stand up for what they believe in, and make a difference. After attending NCTE last week, I crafted this letter to mail to Governor Deal (I also plan on tweaking it and sending it to my senators and state representative). I will be mailing the letters later this week.

Here we go...

Dear Governor Nathan Deal,

I'm sure you've heard this recurring theme in letters you've received, but I would be remiss if I did not take this opportunity. Your teachers are tired. I am aware that many of these letters are written off as just another griping and complaining teacher telling you that we work too hard, but, alas, we get summers off! How hard could it be?

I have several questions I'd like to ask you:

1. Can you think of a teacher who made an impact on your life? What was that impact? Chances are, the impact they made had more to do with their wit, their creativity, their passion, and a life lesson you learned than it had to do with the subject they taught or a test you took.
2. How much time have you spent in classrooms over the course of your administration? I'm not talking a walk-through of a school, or a meeting held in a school. When have you gotten on our students’ levels? Asked them what they like about school? What they wish they had more time for? Did you spend a day in a teacher’s shoes? Administrators?

Our schools contain our nation’s unwritten history, and that is a big responsibility to put on the shoulders of men and women who are overworked and underappreciated.

As an educator, within any given day I am teacher, mentor, colleague, nurse, counselor, actress, friend, and many times, foe. I am known for my high expectations, and my students (at times begrudgingly) rise to the challenge.

Recently you proposed Amendment 1 to the Georgia Constitution, that, although written in nice and flowery diction, failed. I've read several articles about your frustration with its failure. I'd like to clarify some things for you. Educators advocated against the amendment because of the questions I've asked above. Yes, you have an advisory board of teachers, but as with most surveys, they are in no way representative of the whole.

In addition, if you've never been an educator, you have no idea the frustrations of being told what and how to teach and the supreme stifling of creativity that results. This past weekend I spent 3 days with thousands of Language Arts educators from across the country at the National Coalition of Teachers of English (NCTE) convention. In one session we had middle school students from around the metro area sit down for roundtable discussions. The recurring theme of things the students wanted was to know their teachers cared. Many of them feel their teachers don’t care.

This breaks my heart, and it should break yours, too.

As I’m sure you know, in a publication from the Georgia DOE in December of 2015, they released the attrition data of teachers in the state. 44% of teachers leave the profession before they reach year five. I personally know of three phenomenal educators who left the field because they couldn’t take the pressure.

“If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.” Well, Governor Deal, teachers aren’t in an uncomfortably warm kitchen; they are trying to shape young minds, but are trapped in an inferno of policy and data.

Teachers do care. We care so much that it hurts our very souls to see students fail. The clincher? Some teachers don’t have the time to show how much they care. Within fifty minutes of instruction, we are expected to have students read independently, craft written responses, participate in class discussions, and ensure they learn how to analyze poetry, non fiction texts, and classic pieces of literature. We are also expected to make learning hands-on and fun for the various types of learners in our classrooms. Our classes are bursting at the seams with 35 students: some with IEPs, some that are Gifted, some that are ELL, and don’t forget about our middle-of-the-road students who always seem to get lost in the shuffle. Are you tired from seeing all of this information again and again? Well, I assure you that your teachers are tired of saying the above repeatedly and being met with little to no response. We are also expected to create high quality assessments, analyze the data from the last assessments we gave, and provide effective feedback to all 140 of our students. It becomes difficult to cater to each student who needs you and to show them that you care when you hit the ground running the second they walk into the confines of your classroom.

Everywhere I turn I see people complaining about teachers. We are never enough. We’re too strict, too tough, and we ask too much of our students. The profession of teaching has lost its humanity.

Let me be clear, this is not our administrators’ fault. They are doing what’s expected of them, so please don’t shift the blame of failing schools from teachers to administrators. The blame should be placed on our policymakers and stakeholders.

Governor Deal, this is only my third year of teaching, and I refuse to become another statistic. I keep my head down and with confidence know I am doing good things within the walls of my classroom. I create a culture of openness, as do my peers. However, even after two and a half years, I am exhausted to the core of my being. I will continue to pour into my students and be a light to my colleagues. I will not stop fighting. I continually tell my students to do the right thing, and I would be a poor example if I did not follow my own advice and expectation.

I would love to know how you plan to make big changes throughout the rest of your time as governor of the state of Georgia. I would like to know how you plan to lighten teachers’ loads, decrease teacher attrition rates, and spend more time in our local schools. I would like to see this plan take into consideration the specific needs of our administrators, teachers, and students, but without another government takeover policy. What will you do to ensure our students become productive members of society and the workforce, and not just prepared for yet another standardized test?

Thank you for your time, and I look forward to hearing from you soon,

Ms. Victoria Rivard

Getting Comfortable with Being Uncomfortable as an Educator

This past weekend I had the privilege of attending the National Coalition of Teachers of English (NCTE) national convention here in Atlanta. After taking about 24 hours to digest everything I've seen, heard, learned, and discussed, I've come to one conclusion...

I am emotionally exhausted. 

The theme of this weekend was "Faces of Advocacy," and we watched this video. (It's nothing graphic, but it will leave you feeling a bit uncomfortable). We then had a discussion about bystanders vs. upstanders (hint- upstanders stand up). As I watched that video the second time through, I kept thinking about how much I'd like to go up to the projector and turn it off. It made me extraordinarily uncomfortable. With how high-speed our world is, just as quickly as I can turn something on, I can turn it off. As I sat at a table with educators discussing our reactions, another woman turned and said, "I'm so guilty of this with the news. I turn it off when stories are shown that make me sad or angry." I do this all of the time. Now, there are certain things I need to emotionally protect me from that can trigger me, but for the most part, I don't watch/listen because I don't want to know. 

Privilege is a word that's been circulating quite frequently lately. I could go right on ahead and provide a list of the types of adversities I've faced in my life, but in truth, I've led a blessed life. When we lost my dad, my mom's friends swooped in and took care of so many things, many of which I'm just learning about. Our neighbors fed us for months and took care of me after school. My mom, sisters, and I grew closer as a family. 

I've always had a roof over my head and food in my belly. I grew up in a house filled with books, with parents and grandparents who read constantly. I went to good schools. I got to dance in large part to the owners of the studio who helped make that happen. My parents made it possible to go on vacations. I joined Girl Scouts where I got to swim with manatees, go caving, learn about Savannah and Charleston history, and so much more. 

I was never denied this opportunities because of the color of my skin or the economic bracket will fell in to. We may not be wealthy, but my mom was always able to make things happen. 

I take this privilege with me into the classroom. I will say, for the most part, my students do have opportunities many do not. Our school receives the proper funding to go on field trips, and we are able to provide our students with the items necessary to be successful in school. My school is not located in a low economic area. I do, however, teach many students of color, and I teach a large population of young African American males. And every time I hear about something on the news I think, "How am I going to talk about this with my boys?" 

I was called racist 3 times last year, and it shook me to the core. In all 3 of these instances it was because I had to call home over a disciplinary issue. Jason Reynolds, an author/activist spoke this weekend about a teacher who made an impact on him. He said she was strict and that he called her a racist when she really wasn't. I often think, "if only these parents knew how many tears I shed over their boys. I see their sons on a daily basis, and in some ways, they're my boys, too." It takes me swallowing a big slice of humble pie and realizing that in calling me racist, some of these parents think they're protecting their sons. 

The truth is, I am a white, middle class female. Yes, there are ways in which I am not privileged simply because I am a female, but there are so many ways in which I am. I stay off of social media posts about race because I often think about what I can add to the discussion. I don't know that fear. I've never walked in those shoes. However, as a Language Arts teacher, I am in a position of privilege to have discussions with my students. We all will have to acknowledge the fact that I'm certainly not the end all be all, but just because I haven't lived these experiences doesn't mean that I can't be a facilitator of a discussion. 

By nature, I am a feeler. I very much feel other people's emotions and I bring them home with me. This adds even more to my ability to tune out the ugly in this world. I'm reading a book right now called Copper Son by Sharon Draper about a young girl who is torn from her village in Africa to become a slave in pre-revolutionary America. I have cringed. I have cried. This is someone's history, and it could very well be the history of many of the faces I see each morning. 

After this weekend, I feel so burdened for the world, especially for my kiddos. You see, we don't talk about it a whole lot, but teachers, we love fiercely. We would not survive in this profession if it weren't for the students in our classrooms. Sometimes that's all that gets us up in the morning. 

If I want to be an excellent educator, I cannot hide behind my privilege. I must talk about it, and talk about ways my students can change this world for the better. My classroom holds the unwritten history of America, and I cannot sit idly by and stay comfortable. 

I have to get comfortable with being uncomfortable. Whether that means reading articles, listening to the news, or having conversations. I must answer the call.  

Inside Out is actually my life

If you haven't seen Inside Out, in it a pre-teen named Riley's emotions are highlighted. Her emotions consist of Joy, Sadness, Anger, Fear, and Disgust. Although I think most people have a lot more emotions than these 5, I've realized that lately I feel like Riley. 

Not only do I feel like Inside Out, but occasionally I feel like the girl from Mean Girls who talks about wanting to go back to middle school and that she "just has a lot of feelings." Now, I work in a middle school, so I'd never like to go back to that point in time, but I do have a lot of feelings. 

Since starting therapy over 6 months ago, I've realized that I have A LOT of anger. Anger at God for taking my dad, anger at my dad for not taking better care of himself, anger at how mean kids could be, anger that my brain went into self-preservation mode for me to deal with 20 years later, and the list goes on. However, anger, fear, and sadness are all wrapped into one. In March I remember being miserable and frustrated and not being able to name my emotions. I quite literally felt like I lived on an emotional roller coaster. I could go from 0-60 in 1.2 seconds. 

My dad had a lot of anger, and my sisters and I have all inherited this trait in one way or another. I remember my elementary school counselor giving me coping mechanisms for this anger, including screaming into a pillow. I can remember doing this, ripping paper into pieces, and throwing rocks out of the garden beds (my grandma's idea of how to relieve negative energy). Over the years I'd stifle that anger, and then let it loose all at once, and typically on my family, occasionally on my friends. 

Underneath all of that anger was sadness. My therapist said that anger is an empowering emotion, but typically underneath the anger are vulnerable emotions that we try to protect ourselves from. 

They most vulnerable of all emotions is joy, which I have a very difficult time with. I love to laugh and have fun, but there is always this voice in the back of my mind telling me that deep down, I'm sad and angry and fearful. 

If I envision my anger and sadness and fear all that comes to mind is a cluster of gnarled tree roots that are so entwined it's nearly impossible to tell where one ends and another begins. These last 6 months have been spent trying to pry those emotions apart, and identify which one I'm truly feeling. Beginning to separate those emotions leaves room for joy. 

Because of this tangled web of gnarled roots I've kept myself from living and taking risks. I would intentionally stay in because it was safer. I would avoid social situations because they made me uncomfortable and I might experience that emotion called joy. I've been working on it, and making baby steps. 

My "homework" lately is to feel the emotions that I'm feeling, rather than stifle them. This really results in me being in a crabby mood and slightly frustrated. I'm crabby, and allowing myself to be crabby. I'm having to give myself grace enough to let me be crabby. Giving myself grace is a whole other can of worms for another day. My hope in all of this is that the most I process and feel, the less terrified I am to experience joy. I'm in my twenties- I'm not tied down to anyone or anything. I should find freedom in that, not fear, not anger, not sadness, but joy. 

Slowly but surely, I'll choose joy. 

PTSD and this day 18 years ago...

We lost my dad on this day 18 years ago. It's weird to think that I've gone 2/3 of my life without my dad in it. This year is different than it's been in past years because now I know what that day did to me, other than alter the course of my life forever (as it did my sisters and mom). 

This day, 18 years ago, is when PTSD started. I always thought of PTSD as something soldiers suffer from, or something people who are truly traumatized go through, never thinking that in my 6 year old brain hearing my father take his last breaths, seeing my mom give him CPR, and saying goodbye to his soulless body was traumatizing. 

I had few fears when I was little. I was shy, yes, but my family often tells the story of me running with full speed into a pool with no floaties on-- I knew someone would save me. 

I've spent the last 2/3 of my life thinking something was wrong with me. I always thought, "surely, if I can get through this next rough patch, things will be OK." They weren't. I thought knowing Jesus would be enough. It's helped, certainly, but it hasn't made my anxieties go away. My list of irrational fears grew exponentially. From fearing fish would eat my toes in the water, to thinking that if my mom didn't answer her phone it meant she was dead. If a normal person's anxiety level was a 2 on a 10 point scale, mine was a 15. 

I didn't know the memories I had of the day I lost my dad and significant memories following were flashbacks; I thought everyone had memories that way. I didn't know it wasn't "normal" to not only remember those things, but to relive them. If I think about the day my dad died, I am 6 again, sitting at the top of the stairs, taking in the chaos around me. I am living through that day again. 

Fear and anxiety controlled my life- from new social and life experiences to everything in between. 

I've told my mom countless times while having a meltdown that I was crazy. I would regress to acting like a very young adult during times of change, as if I didn't know how to express how I was feeling or what I was thinking. 

When change happens I go into meltdown mode. When I feel I'm losing control I go into meltdown mode. Meltdown mode is not healthy; it's like a 6 year old throwing a tempter tantrum. I've had countless meltdowns in my life that go beyond the ugly crying stage. I never knew that change was a "trigger," I always just thought I "didn't handle change well." 

I was given ways to cope with worry and anxiety. They'd help for a few months, and then the downward spiral would begin again, and the whole process would start all over.

Until February of this year. 

I decided to go back to therapy *again* because I felt insane and I knew something wasn't right. Finally  someone listened to me. This new therapist heard me recount my past and asked if anyone had mentioned PTSD. After talking through the diagnosis and how my symptoms lined up, I felt freedom. 

These 7 months have been an extremely difficult road to walk down, but I know I'm on the healthy path. The most difficult day was reliving the day my dad died-- the day it all started. When I often think of this day I go into "preservation" mode. I don't let myself flash back. I go numb so I don't have to feel. Well, she wouldn't let me do that. She made me feel. It was like ripping off the world's strongest, toughest band aid. It hurt. The days following hurt. It stirred up so much in my mind that the dreams of my dad were so vivid that I couldn't sleep. It brought out pain, anger, frustration, and all of these emotions that I wouldn't let myself truly feel for 17+ years. 

I notice the difference in myself. My friends and family have said they notice the difference, too. It's weird to have people say they're proud of you for doing work on yourself mentally. It's even more weird to feel proud of yourself. 

In past years as I'd prepare for this day I'd feel like a Floridian preparing their house for a hurricane. Board up the windows, secure the surroundings. That way I wouldn't have to let myself feel whatever it was my brain was stirring up. And a hurricane wouldn't just come- it would be a hurricane and tsunami mixed together. 

This year is different, though. This year it's more I'm laying at the water's edge letting the waves come occasionally.  I'm letting myself ride the waves of emotion. If I have a flashback (as I've had all day), I let myself be sad for a moment, I feel what I'm feeling, and I keep going. 

This year, I'm not just going to survive in this life. I want to thrive in this life. 

My teaching philosophy (and how it's changed)

For my Gifted endorsement, I was charged with writing a teaching philosophy, and I thought I'd share it with you all (all 4 of you) in honor of the school year ending.

            When originally tasked with the assignment of writing my teaching philosophy, I immediately thought I’d grab a copy of something I wrote two short years ago as a college senior, when I was bright-eyed and ready to tackle the world of public education. People told me it was hard, and I “knew” it would be, but surely with my fresh attitude and innovative ideas, I could attack anything! My students would be bright, intrinsically motivated, and ready to tackle anything I threw their way. I could, indeed reach every student and captivate them with my sense of humor and quick wit. After all, teaching is a lot of people’s “back up plan,” and this society tells us that *anyone* can teach.

Fast forward two years, and with a bit of a heavy heart, I realized that I’m not that person anymore.  

            Two years into teaching and my vision for changing the world through education has dimmed. I look back on these two years and understand why so many of my peers leave, and why so many young, capable, innovative teachers quit before their fifth year of teaching. The system, starting on a national level, is indeed broken, and this job jades you.

Reflecting on these two years, I realize how much this job has taken from me. It has taken my time- this job is hardly forty hours a week, and if I ever meet a teacher who works strictly forty hours a week, I’d like to clone them. I can’t sleep at night because I’m thinking about my students’ well-being, their understanding, their successes, their failures. This job has taken my sanity- at any given moment you have at least seven different students asking things from you, from bathroom passes to extra credit, all while you have important emails to answer and heaven forbid you actually teach something. This job has taken my vision for being wonder-woman teacher, with an uncanny ability to make copies, answer emails, prepare lessons that cater to EVERY student, make phone calls to parents, deal with discipline problems with ease and grade assignments in less than twenty four hours. The job has taken away my self-assurance as I lay awake at night wondering if I handled that classroom disruption correctly, if little Johnny will pass my class, or what was bothering Suzie today. I’m constantly thinking of what more I could do, how much more I could give, and how there never seems to be enough of me to go around.

I am tired. I am worn, much like the rest of the teachers in this very broken system. But, there is one thing this job can’t take from me- my love for building relationships. If I’m honest with myself, my students won’t remember much of what I teach them, and that’s OK. They won’t remember The Giver’s character or the analysis they did of Jonas. They won’t remember all of the subordinating conjunctions or how to make a sentence in active voice. They will, however, remember one very important piece of information—that I cared. I cared about what happened in their lives. I cared about their successes and their failures, and more importantly, I asked. They’ll remember “High Five Friday” and #lifelessonswithMsRivard. If I think about my life as a student and the teachers who made the biggest impact on me, I don’t remember everything about Honors Anatomy or AP Language, but I remember that those teachers pushed me, and I was willing to work for them because they cared. I strive to be the teacher who cares. My prayer is that they’ll know that whether they’re the brightest child in the class or the one who reads on a 4^th grade reading level. I pray they’ll know that information whether they’re the quiet child who likes to observe, or if they’re the child I get onto every day. I strive for them to know that I care. Humbly I know that I can’t reach every student, but at least they’ll know I tried.

On the days when this job is hard, it is evident that these students know I care by the countless “goodbyes” I get at the end of the day, or the hugs in the morning, or the way they eagerly come back from a break to tell me about it. They share things with me that they wouldn’t normally with an adult. My primary goal in teaching is to be a role model. I apologize when I mess up, I cry at sad parts of books, and I laugh when things are funny. I “do life” with these kids. I want them to know that I do not, under any circumstance, expect perfection, but I do expect their best. I work every day to give them my best, and expect that in return.

            So to that college senior version of myself who just knew this system wouldn’t beat her- keep on chugging, my friend. Love the kids, and love the journey.          

P.S. Find out who has the candy stash and ALWAYS have extra pencils. 

Learning to love yourself

*long and personal post ahead*

When 2016 started, I was not myself. I haven't felt like myself in quite some time. I would typically describe myself as an upbeat, glass-half-full kind of person, but somewhere in my almost 2 years of real adulthood, I lost the Victoria I knew. I still found myself acting the same, but I just didn't feel like me. 

As I sat thinking about what I wanted to accomplish in 2016, the word persist came to mind. I give up easily- not so much on others (I am a teacher after all), but on myself. For years I've convinced myself that I can't do things or that I don't deserve them. I don't deserve to be happy; I don't deserve to love my body; I don't deserve love from other people. Cognitively, I know these things aren't true, but emotionally, they felt very real. So, as I sat thinking about how I would tangibly persist in things, my sister, Jackie, texted me about a half marathon (something I vowed I'd never be able to do). On a whim, with persistence in mind, I said I wanted to train with her. 

The experience was...brutal. Neither of us were runners, and we started out running 2.5 miles. The furthest I had ever run in my life was 2 miles. I *attempted* a 5k my senior year of college, and I couldn't run the whole thing. Our first long run was 4 miles, and I remember thinking, "If I can do these 4 miles, I might actually be able to do this." During the last half mile of that run, I cried. For the first time in probably most of my fitness life (even though I was a dancer, I let fear keep me from working to my potential), I pushed through a wall. The rest of training was rough- it was met with a minor hip injury. Jackie definitely had it worse- strep, runner's knee, stomach bug. And if it weren't for her, I would've given up after about 3 weeks. We crossed the half marathon finish line hand in hand in a full cheese-ball moment. We vowed we'd never do it again.

**We're already researching more half marathons and are thinking about a full. Crazy, I know.**

During this half marathon training process, my goal wasn't to lose weight, although I did lose a few pounds and noticed my clothes fitting differently. I just wanted to finish something that I'd started. It was as much a mental break through as it was a physical one.

I've shared my struggles and journey with anxiety before. When I went through the darkest days in 2012-2013 I was very open and honest on here. I had always said it started with a break up, but it didn't have as much to do with the boy and broken heart as it did things I hadn't dealt with. I never really felt like anyone had believed me, though. I'm not sure I even believed me. I spun out of control, contemplating suicide, and barely keeping it together. God did incredible things in the darkness, though, as He tends to do. 

This semester has been rough at work. January and February especially. I hated my job. I hated my kids. I hated teaching. Yes, working in public education is a constant uphill battle, but I can usually let the little victories outweigh the cons. I really started questioning if I could do this. I didn't feel like a good teacher. I didn't feel like a good person, really. I noticed some behaviors creeping back up again- eating my feelings, zero desire to do anything but stay in bed, and some dark and twisty thoughts. I cried on the phone to my mom just about every day. I told her this was ridiculous, "normal" people could handle this. I didn't feel normal anymore. My poor teammates witnessed more than one emotional break down in the afternoons. 

Finally, I decided I needed professional help. I chose a therapist who's helped my friend a lot the last few years. If you've never been to a counselor, the first session is typically a "tell me your struggles" type thing, and I felt I'd been letting anxiety dictate my life. I let it determine if I'd hang out with friends. I'd let it determine how I acted in social situations. I let it determine what I ate, how active I was, and what kind of teacher I was that day. Upon listening to me, my counselor stopped me. I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder when I was 13, but she had a different diagnosis for me- Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD. After she said the words I felt a flood of relief. I could experience freedom from these thoughts and emotions that have dictated my life for almost 20 years. That dark time in my life? It really was more than just a break up. It was a trigger. G's death was a trigger. Maneuvering my way through adulthood was a trigger. My therapist explained that my PTSD has been manifesting itself as anxiety and depression because, as a child, I didn't have the emotional maturity or the life experience to verbalize anything else. 

It's only been about 3 weeks, but I have started to feel like me again. I've made some discoveries. I vowed I would NEVER teach middle school. I was offered jobs at both middle and high school. Something in me chose middle school and 8th grade. How old was I when Grandma died and I was diagnosed with GAD? 13 and in 8th grade. It was a weird "aha" moment, and explained my frustration with my students. I'd walked through hell and back at 6 and then again and 13, and my kids can't even remember to do their homework or take ownership of their mistakes. This week at work has been so much better now that I'm aware that a portion of it is me. Last week, my therapist kept asking me how I got through the grief and loss at 6 and 13. I kept talking about my support system- mom, sisters, grandparents, neighbors, family friends (I firmly believe it does, in fact, take a village to raise a child). She stopped me and asked me how I got through it, and I couldn't answer her. I didn't know. I'd never thought about it before.

I was talking about my students and my frustrations with them in general. Again, cognitively I know it's all relative- what is a big deal to them is a big deal. I think sometimes I cut them more slack based on what's going on at home, but I explained that it gets to a point where I want to shake them and tell them to get up, dust themselves off, and keep moving. I then was describing how I persisted through half marathon training. I knew that if I kept putting one foot in front of the other it meant I hadn't stopped, and that I was still moving, even if I was slow, even if my forward motion seemed imperceptible, I was moving, and that's what kept me going. My therapist stopped me right there. She said, "Those two things. Those answer my question. That's how you got through it." 

And isn't that how we all get through it? I'm sure it's how my mom did, alone with 4 girls to raise. I'm sure it's how my sisters did. Heck, two were in high school and one was in middle school. Their stories and their journeys carry just as much weight as mine does. Whatever any of us- not just my family- are going through- the forward motion is what keeps us going. We know the sun will rise and another day will come. We know work and demands will be there. We just. keep. moving.

I know my road ahead won't be easy. If I really do work through this PTSD, I know it will be ugly. I'll be forced to recall some things I've suppressed for almost 2 decades. But, I do know it'll be worth it. I'm learning to love myself- my body included. After I proved to myself I could finish the half marathon, I'm treating my body with the respect it deserves, and listening to it. I feel so much better when I treat it like the temple it is- imagine that! 

Here's to more persistence in 2016- to moving forward, to keeping our feet moving, and to breaking through walls and obstacles we were sure would stand taller than us. 

Smile, God loves you! (and thanks for sticking through this novel of a post)

And I tell you, ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and the one who seeks finds, and to the one who knocks it will be opened. - Luke 11:9-10