The First Time

My husband and I recently put down our wonderful beagle pup of ten years. This was an indescribably difficult decision. And one a lot of people go through.

I was moved by the kindness and warmth of the vet staff throughout this painful process and ultimate decision. In the moment my dog took his final breath I had been sobbing. The doctor was on the floor with me, solemn with me, and quiet with me as I let go. His presence in the room so closely mirrored mine I had more than one urge to ask him if he was ok, if it was difficult for him. Each time that urge would surface, I would quickly remember this wasn’t  his first time, in fact he probably does it all the time. But he had the remarkable ability to really be in the moment of my first time. 

I recently returned from a trip to find a card from the vet’s office signed by all of the staff with heartfelt messages and I was again moved by their sincerity in helping me through my first time of letting go of my beloved dog. My first heart-wrenching loss of this kind. It’s standard procedure for them but that’s not how it felt for me. 

Whatever it is that you do in your life - teaching your 717th student how to write their name, helping your 208th patient recover from surgery, meeting with your 376th client whose home is going into foreclosure - I hope you can approach it with genuine engagement of remembering it’s the first time for them. Because it matters. Whether or not it matters to you, it definitely does to them. A lot. 

8 years

8 years

It went by fast, huh?

When we got married, I wondered what this would be like. The fun stuff seemed easy. But what about the other stuff? How do vows translate into overcoming difficulty, surviving the unthinkable and still coming up for air with something that looks like a marriage? 

We don't get to know how things turn out or what challenges will come our way. In the last year my husband and I have suffered the devastating loss of three close family members and a miscarriage. We spent months with broken hearts, picking each other up when one of us had strength and the other needed to borrow it. It wasn't all pretty or perfect. It was messy. And difficult. I remember moments looking at my husband through my tears and thinking, "do you still love me now?" And again later, "how about now?" Not questions to be satisfied with words but with actions. And he showed up every single time. 

Here's what vows look like in the dark moments:

"I love you more than this hard moment"

"I love you enough to get to the other side together"

"I love you enough to remember all the good when your heart is so broken you can't"

"I love you enough to hold the hard things for you"

"I love you enough to be strong for you"

"I love you enough to let you cry and not feel ashamed about it"

I didn't need this year of heartache. I didn't need the constant reminder of how fragile life is. But I'm grateful for the chance to know, without question, that I've chosen someone who shows up for the easy stuff and shows up even bigger for the hard stuff. 

I'm not wondering about the next 20 years, or the next 8, or the next year. I have this moment and this person, and I'm so grateful. 

The Things I Can't Say

You're wondering what it's like to be sad? Really, really sad?

It's gonna be a long journey, are you ready? If this important to you, stick with it. If you're really patient and you don't say a word. If you dig way down, farther than you've ever gone. If it gets a little dark but you're not afraid. If you wait there and you can just be. There you'll find, carefully tucked away, the things I can't say.

There are things I can't say because I promised I wouldn't. There are things I can't say because they're wrong. There are things I can't say because they would hurt other people. And there are things I can't say because they would hurt me. That's what you've come here for, right? The peeling of the last layer, the peeling off the deepest layer of skin. Raw, exposed, vulnerable, irreparable.

Unprotected, the things I can't say unravel into darkness and silence and aching and nightmares. The dark so bright you'll shield your eyes. The silence so loud you cover your ears. The ache in my heart will shatter the ground you stand on. Your nightmares will keep you awake. The reality of dark will beg for sleep. The reveal will break me and I will crumble. My protective layer dissolving and pooling around the remains of what was. 

And once the protective layer is off, it can't be put back on. You won't look at me the same. You want want to touch me. The sight of me will terrify you. I won't be safe to take around your friends. So you'll leave me here in the dark, with the things I can't say, trying to put back all the raw little parts of me that I carelessly revealed to you. 

The pain is familiar and the darkness is soothing. The aloneness has a predictable ache. I want to call your name but when I speak, sadness fills me and I choke. I want to find my way out but I am numb.  I also know I can't stay. I will drown here. So I will wait, alone, while it burns and I struggle to cover up the parts that hurt. It may take days or it may take weeks but when the raw stings less and I feel less naked, I'll crawl my way back out. I will feel the sun on my face and I will take one tiny step forward. 

With each step forward, I might remember the dark and I might not. But the next time someone asks what it feels like to be sad, really, really sad. I'll just smile. Because there are things I can't say. 

For 21 days

For 21 days, I thought about you nonstop. Imagined our life together and all of things I couldn't wait to show you.

For 21 days, I imagined introducing you to my family and friends. They would admire how connected and in love we were. The perfect pair. 

For 21 days, I made my decisions based around you: what I ate, what I wore, plans I made. You were my guide in everything I did. 

For 21 days, my senses absorbed the amplified world around me: smells were stronger and tastes were bolder. 

For 21 days, I dreamed about you when I was sleeping and daydreamed about you when I was awake. 

For 21 days, I bought you small gifts, and hung your picture in my room, and made space for you in every corner of my life. 

And by the time you were gone, though there was no way to make sense of it,  I already knew it was over. 

21 days seems so short but I know no amount of time with you would have ever been enough. 

And I know this, my short 21 days with you growing inside my body will ensure I never take for granted a single second I am holding my next sweet baby in my arms. 

Like a Girl

I have a vivid memory from sometime in my early preteen years of having a desire to mow my family's lawn. My dad (sorry, Dad!) responded that I was too young and then asked my brother to do it - my brother who is three years younger than I. 

One year I asked for free weights for Christmas. I got them. Mine were pink. 

I've been required by more than one employer to wear dresses to look like a woman. 

I've been told I need to smile more. 

More than once at work a coworker searched for a man to carry something for her. I was right there. 

I've been told I throw like a girl. I run like a girl. These aren't compliments. 

At some point "female" began to mean "weak", "incapable", "less than". 

If a woman can't do something, surely a man can do it for her. If a woman can something, surely a man can do it better. 

Laurel Ulrich Thatcher, well-known for her quote and book entitled "Well-behaved Women Seldom Make History", paints a picture of women through history and around the world. It is both devastating and inspiring to read of women whose words were suppressed and undocumented in Shakespearean times, women who disguised themselves as men to enter into battle, women who were raped and forced into marriage, and woman who had enough of being the lesser sex. These women are wise yet sensitive, strong yet soft, and independent yet altruistic. Women possess the ability to embody characteristics that appear contradictory when embodied by men. This provokes in men feelings of both intimidation and strong desire. Causing the reader to wonder, why have women often felt the need to disguise their identity, bite their tongue, or submit to misogynistic laws and norms? 

I'm grateful to the trail blazing women around the world that haven't always been well-behaved and instead have made some pretty incredible strides and a history of women worth telling. 

The details of the lives of these women and my life as a priveliged woman in the 21st century are drastically different but issues surrounding the treatment and attitudes toward women continue to run rampant. 

In many ways I'm grateful to my dad, men I've dated, people I've worked with, society in general. Because these messages of inferiority and incapability haven't subsided as I've gotten older, these messages became stronger. And the feelings of being underestimated, marginalized, and undervalued motivated me to try harder, to prove they were wrong, and to surround myself with people who know my strength and of how much I'm capable. 

I'm confident like a girl. 

I speak my mind like a girl. 

I stand up for what's right like a girl. 

I'm strong like a girl. 

I'm smart like a girl. 

And sometimes I'm not so well-behaved. 

And I'm proud of it. 

Holding my mistakes

One of the most remarkable aspects of the work I do is engaging with teachers of three- and four-year-olds and observing their growth as educators over time – recognizing their passion, reflecting on their work, and always committing to doing better. One of the really painful parts of this that I remember well through my own training is coming to terms with who you used to be. Maya Angelou said it best, “when you know better, you do better”. But the hard part can be forgiving yourself for when you didn’t know better. But that’s just it, you didn’t know. Now, as a reflective, knowledgeable person committed to doing better, you look back and wish you had known sooner, wish you could undo the mistakes that you made. But those little mistakes are the gifts that hold you committed to doing better in the future.

Today was a particularly powerful day in training as we learn new strategies for engaging with children in difficult, emotional situations. We learn new skills but also remember the times and the outcomes when we didn’t have these skills and we feel guilty.  I shared with them that as a parent of a four-year-old, I get it. I can vividly recount every time I feel like I failed him as a parent. But I’ve never counted the times I succeeded; I carry around the mistakes. And sometimes they are heavy. But I also know they help me to do better every time.

After the day had ended, I spent a lot of time reflecting on the emotions of the women in my training room today and remembering the countless times when I had felt the exact same way as both a parent and a teacher. Always wishing I had known better and carrying around these little mistakes I had made that help me move forward as a wiser person committed to reflecting and adjusting my behavior.

Here is one of the mistakes that I carry as a parent:

Reading is really important in my family. For knowledge, for enjoyment, for bonding with others, for life success. We read as a family, we read alone, and there are books in every room of the house. So like many families, reading books with our son is part of our bedtime routine. Our son can be a bit pokey around bedtime and it is indescribably frustrating. He be-bops around, being silly, constantly in motion, but never really towards the goal of getting ready for bed. Surely, it seems that if one moves that much, clothes should easily slip off and one could wiggle into pajamas. But that’s not the case. My husband and I spend a significant amount of time reminding him to focus on his task. We let him choose the order: potty, teeth then jams, or jams, potty, then teeth. No amount of reminders or shared control will speed this little guy along.

So we impose a logical consequence and we bargain with our only token: books. We gently remind him that if it takes too long to get ready, there may only be time for two books instead of three. Or if things are going really slow, there may only be time for one book instead of two. He loves to read so on most days, this is enough.  Well, one night out of pure frustration and eagerness to get to my adult, post-child-bedtime agenda, I threatened no books. He tested my threat and needless to say, we didn’t read any books that night. He cried. My heart ached. And I was immediately filled with regret for taking away something so simple, for compromising something so integral to our family values, for sacrificing our precious opportunity to spend a few minutes rocking and snuggling, for putting my agenda and frustration above his limited attention and understanding of time. 

This never happened again. We start earlier, we give more reminders, we whittle down from three to two to one book, we're honest about our feelings of frustration when the process is taking too long, but we always, ALWAYS read one book together. 

So here’s the thing, not really a big deal, right? I missed one night of reading to my kid, he’ll probably still pass 4^th grade, right? My son is 1,526 days old. I didn’t read to him on 1 day of his life. I’m not focused on the other 1,525 days when I did read to him. I’m holding the mistake of the 1. But gently carrying that one around reminds me of the time that I compromised my values out of momentary frustration and imposed a consequence that hurt all of us. So I carry this around, I adjust my behavior, I remember how that experience felt for all of us, I prioritize my values over moments of frustration. And I think this is good. Now, I know better and I do better. 

Those mistakes you're holding? They're there to help you. 

Hold these gifts gently, be grateful for them, and give yourself a little grace. 

On loss and being IN sadness.

This past fall, my family experienced devastating loss of people we loved.  First, the unexpected death of my husband's 30-yr-old sister. If it were even possible to get over this kind of loss, we certainly weren't when my maternal grandma went into the hospital, followed by my paternal grandma a few hours later. They both died later that week - an incredibly difficult and emotional week for all of us. Even as I type this several months later, it's hard to believe they're all gone. It's almost as if I haven't processed the individual loss of each because it happened all at once. 

I have the incredible blessing of a large and kind support system. I was so moved by the outpouring of love from the people around me. Despite that, my heart was broken, I cried a lot, and sometimes I struggled to keep my shit together. My tribe loved me anyway. 

In a moment where grief and gratitude tangled, I wrote this down for my people:

So this is it, right? This is life. We get older, people we love leave us. It hurts because it mattered. It hurts because we loved. 

This week has been sad and painful and hard. But, I heard your kind words. I'm comforted by your thoughts and prayers. I'm encouraged by your strength and generosity to take care of the things I can't right now. 

As much as my heart is breaking in this moment, I can feel how it is been held together by your kindness and love. 

I've not been waiting for this day or this week to pass and become a distant memory. Because this is life right here. All of it right at once. The really hard stuff but also the really good stuff. Thanks for showing up for both. #tribe 

Often as time passes, the rawness of emotions begins to fade. I periodically reread this message I wrote and remember how much I needed the people that held me up during that time - and how they didn't hesitate to show up. 

"Watch Where You're Being"

My four-year-old is creative, inquisitive, independent, and social. He loves to engage in painting, puzzles, or putting together legos. He also has a wild streak and will run laps around the house, giggling and whooshing by us calling out "watch where you're being!"

I'm certain he simply meant that I was in the way but there's a deeper message here about our presence, where we linger, and our awareness of those things. 

For me, this year is about really being in the moment, living my values, and minimizing life clutter - toxic relationships, unhealthy choices, and physical "stuff" that takes up space in my life. In the months that I've been working on this I've spent more face-to-face time and voice time in relationships that are really valuable to me. I've spent more time reading and growing my range of knowledge. I've also become increasingly aware of my presence (though I'm certain at times, not quite aware enough). And by paying attention to this, I've come to realize that there are some changes I need to make. Both in where I'm being but also how I'm being. There are places in my life I need to spend less time (as a consumer, reliving events of the past, blaming, judging, to name a few!) and there are places in my life where I need to spend more time (with people I love, on self care, on generosity and compassion). But most importantly I need to focus on my affect, my responses to other people, taking into consideration what people need from me - and whether or not I'm truly able to give it. 

Beyond that, there are places and moments in my life in which I linger too long, beyond what is useful to others and maybe beyond what is healthy for me. My inability to avoid developing attachment to people, situations, and feelings as if they could be unchanging has caused a fair amount of grief for me and the result is physical and emotionally lingering - taking away from my awareness of my presence and truly being in the moment. 

The sound advice of my sweet son, delivered in a blur of four-year-old energy, is a much needed reminder to pay closer attention to my presence. In addition to this gleeful warning from my son, I'm grateful for all the people in my life that periodically, lovingly offer gentle guidance when I need it: watch where you're being!

15 things

My eyes dart quickly around the space. I absent-mindedly  touch my face. I focus on my breathing but the breaths come and go and they are quick and shallow. My mind jumps from my work email, to my dentist appointment, to Christmas, to  the girl on the bus I made fun of in seventh grade, to the abrupt end to a phone call with a friend this week. My shoulders tense and my hands get clammy. 

I know I am experiencing the symptoms of anxiety. I know that no one around me knows this is happening to me. I can spend time rationalizing every worry that jumps through my mind but I know I can't keep up and I know they will keep jumping up provoking a physical reaction in me and begging for undue attention. 

This happens to me on a regular basis. I'm guessing this happens to a lot of people. I have a lot of strategies that I can use proactively to prevent the frequency and severity of these experiences. I don't consume caffeine as it triggers and magnifies my anxious feelings. I exercise regularly because it helps me work off the jittery feelings and clears my mind. I meditate regularly because it calms me and strengthens the connection between my mind and body. I pay attention to my breathing and remind myself that feelings come and go. 

But when the wave of irrational panic sets in, it's too late. I can go for a walk, I can breath thru it, I can talk to someone I trust. Sometimes these things work and sometimes they don't. And I don't know how long it will last or how bad it will get. 

I found this grounding exercise from Mommy Chat:

In the moment of experiencing anxiety, identify: 

5 things you can see

4 things you can touch

3 things you can hear

2 things you can smell

1 thing you can taste

I'm trying this and it's working. 

It's quick. It reconnects my mind and body. I can do this grounding exercise without drawing attention to what is happening to me - physically, mentally, or emotionally. 

Maybe you can relate to the feelings of anxiety or maybe you're one of the lucky ones. 

This can also work when you're stressed, when you're disoriented, or when you can't stay focused on the moment. 

And if it's not a strategy you need, it may be worth sharing with a friend. Anxiety can be silent but it can also be crippling. 

Stop, drop, and roll

As a kid I really thought this was going to be a thing. A strategy I needed to make it through life. As if it were going to be a day-to-day skill I would use like brushing my teeth. 

It turns out in my 35 years, I've never had to stop, drop, and roll. Not once. Though after a few cocktails, this might be one way to describe my less than stellar dance moves! 

But seriously, I've never caught fire and needed to react quickly with the well-rehearsed procedure of stopping, dropping, and rolling. But I have had to apply the concept in other ways. 

Throughout life we develop and refine a variety of response strategies for handling unfamiliar or stressful situations. This is a more sophisticated range than merely fight or flight. We learn to distinguish between situations in which we have time to make a decision and situations in which we need to respond immediately.  

Stop, drop, and roll is a metaphoric strategy we use when we have to act fast. 

It helps us to recognize immediate danger and to respond quickly for our own good. With this response strategy, we are able  to prioritize our safety. There are times we have to act quickly to extinguish a situation that could rapidly spread and cause more damage. 

It may not be as often as implied in elementary school but every now and then you might need to pause, assume a safe position, and extinguish a threat. For your own wellbeing.

You will be alright

"You will be alright."

Quite possibly the easiest advice to give and in the moment of difficulty the hardest to believe. Recently, in a moment of professional chaos and personal devastation, I found myself unraveling to a good friend. I was aware that my emotions were reactive but also unable to slow the snowballing momentum they had gained. 

He listened and acknowledged with genuine emotion my sadness, worries, and exhaustion. 

And then he said, "I know you know this and I know it's hard to believe right now, but you will be alright."

I was quiet for a moment. My emotions stilled and my shoulders relaxed. I immediately knew he was right. He said the thing I couldn't say to myself. Here's where I am right now. It's hard, it's uncertain, it's a little bit scary. But I will be alright. Right now, I don't know how. But I will. And I needed the reminder. The possibility of being alright was outside my blinders. Somewhere in my peripheral that I couldn't access. But this person could and he brought it back the center of my focus. I will be alright.

So, believe it or not, despite the moments when overwhelming, snowballing feelings take over, you will, indeed, be alright. 

You'll get through it, you'll recover, there's more good to come. It feels hard now, but it will get better. You will come out on the other side, stronger, braver, wiser, and better off. 

It's true. Count your years. The hard things you've faced. The number of times your emotions snowballed away from you. And the number of times you were, in the end, alright. 

So breathe, and let someone give you the easiest advice to give and let yourself believe it to be true. Bring the posseibility of being alright out of your peripheral and into the center of your focus. 

You will be alright. 

"Can you feel me hugging you?"

Last December I had the privilege and honor to hear lawyer, Bryan Stephenson, speak at the Zero to Three Conference. His presentation was so moving and inspiring, he received the most unanimous and immediate standing ovation I've ever seen. Upon my return home I immediately went to the library and checked out his book "Just Mercy". It was equally incredible.

In both his presentation and his book he tells a story of his grandma hugging him really tight and then asking "Can you feel me hugging you?" And if he said no, she would hug him harder. 

He connects this to the importance of really feeling. Of gaining understanding and doing good work through proximity. We can't impose change and solve problems from a distance. We can't reach others when we are outside. We must get closer. To challenges, to people, to areas where we want to see change. It is important to examine where we need greater proximity in our lives to empathize with others and do the work we intend to do. 

In this, Bryan is talking about seeking solutions to poverty, injustice, racism, and other risk factors for our nation's children, particularly children of color. And this might be your work too. But we can also bring this home to our personal lives. What areas of your life could use your proximity. What are you phoning in that you need to be present for? Consider how you could get closer to the people in your life, your neighborhood, your community. 

When you are apart from the people who matter the most to you, have you been so close that they can still feel you hugging them? If not, hug harder. 

A good place to start

There were mixed reviews in my social circle regarding my decision to leave the social media platform for a year. Many people reached out to say they thought about doing the same thing. Most said they were proud of me and thought this was great for me and my family. One bold friend whom I can always trust to speak her mind and be honest with me said leaving Facebook is a cop out and really I just need therapy! She's probably right. But this life-cleansing step seemed cheaper and instantaneous.

Another friend, who deeply understands why I needed to make this shift in my life has since sent me pictures of her adventures, inspiring quotes that made her think of me, thoughtful messages - the kinds of personal interactions I was craving. She also sent me a link to the most fabulous set of questions for self-reflection. Questions which I could respond to with pages and pages of thoughts and reflections - many of which would include an overlap with the reasons I left Facebook.

Here's the list:

http://liveboldandbloom.com/12/self-improvement/deep-questions-to-ask

I encourage you to spend some time on these questions. Maybe one a day.

Today I pick #60: How am I holding back love for myself?

I picked the one because I know the answer but it's a hard question to reflect on and a hard thing to change.

The first thing I have to admit is that it's really difficult for me to forgive myself. To cut myself some slack. To offer a bit of grace in a difficult time. I struggle to allow myself to make mistakes and let go of past failures. And then I carry them around like rocks in a backpack, weighing me down and challenging my ability to move forward. 

I have a tendency to see myself as the mistakes I've made rather than as the successes I've had or the changes I've made as I learned from mistakes. Or even just to accept the general human nature I possess that includes successes and failures. 

It's difficult to look at those who I've wronged or hurt and understand why they're still here, forgiving and loving me. 

I have an unfortunate mental catalog of the wrongs I've committed against others. I can see their looks of disappointment, hurt, anger, and sadness. I remember the words I used that cut too deep. I replay my hurtful actions. One moment in this mental catalog brings on the familiar tightness in my chest sparked by overwhelming feelings of shame, guilt, and self-loathing. And then I circle back to the disbelief that people in my life have continued to love me even after I've made mistakes. 

When I question the presence of the people who choose to stay with me, I'm ultimately questioning the love I deserve. 

In order to love myself, I need to first put the rocks down and shut my mental catalog. Then accept both my human nature to make mistakes and the grace that people around me so generously offer. 

So take a look at this list of questions. Where do want to start being really honest with yourself? By taking a close look at the parts that hurt or the parts of you that need the most work? Or just dip your toe in the water and start with a question that doesn't make your chest tighten?

I know I have a lot of exploring and reflecting to do. And right now, I have lots of time to do it. This list seems like a good place to start.

Go slow

I have a thing for cranes. It's strange, I know. But I can explain. 

First, clearly the explanation is long so sometimes I avoid giving it and if it comes up I’ll brush it off by saying “I just have a thing for cranes.” People often leave it at that, because well, it’s weird and who cares? My friend, A, left it at that and for quite a while was under the impression that I’m aroused by birds. I think we’ve since cleared that up. But we continue to have a good laugh about it now and then. 

Second, I find cranes architecturally interesting. They have beautiful lines, symmetry and angles. The typical contrast against blue skies or mixed into a city skyline photographs really well. I have photographed them all over the country because they are beautiful but also to capture a brief yet important moment in time that is worth acknowledging as described below. My good friend and travel buddy K knows part of any road trip is capturing these beauties along the way!

Third, cranes represent a literal change in a community – and usually a big one. Some people will feel the loss of what used to be and some people will look forward to what will be. But I think to honor both we must acknowledge and embrace the process. It’s important to respect that a lot is happening here, go slow. Instead, we often avoid the process, grumble about it, even if it is a change we are in favor of. We become too eager for the finished product to acknowledge what it takes to get there. Also, there’s no such thing as a finished product, as soon as it is “finished” it begins to deteriorate, gradually and eventually leading to the same process over again.  

Fourth, for me, cranes represent the metaphorical process of growth and change that we all go through and is essentially the process of living. All the things I said above apply – we spend too much time mourning what used to be and focusing on the outcome rather than focusing on the process. And the reality is, we are never a finished product; we’re always changing and growing. So on this level, it is a gentle reminder to be patient with ourselves and others, we’re all going through change and it is important and necessary and beautiful. With ourselves and others we need to remember, “go slow, something is happening here”. The final product is not the important part anyway – and neither are the people that find that part of you to be the most important. We are all a work in progress and we need frequent reminders to embrace that.

Last, I have issues with death, particularly our burial process. I hate the idea of people visiting me in a cemetery – because that’s not where I would be if I was alive and I don’t intend to be there in death. If people miss me I’d rather they seek comfort in going for a run, singing at the top of their lungs in their car, volunteering their time, trying something out of their comfort zone, or noticing the beauty of cranes and remembering to be gentle with themselves. Because, these are places I would actually be. I think we are closer to people we miss when we engage in experiences or memories that remind us of them. 

My friend N wrote a post in her blog vaguely about this perspective of mine and how important it is to her that she sees me in cranes and they are everywhere she goes, every city, anywhere in the country and thus I am always with her.

What is most interesting about this to me is that it means something a little different to anyone I explain it to but that’s kind of the point – for A, it is a really good hard laugh, for N, it is an ever-present connection to me and a reminder to embrace change, for K it something beautiful to photograph that makes her think of the dozens of times we've traveled together and I’ve made her pull over so I could take a picture. And these are all me. These are all ways I'd want to be remembered. 

"There's room for all of us."

A few months back, while bike riding with my family I veered left to pull up next to my husband. Unintentionally, I cut off a young black man just behind me. I immediately said "oh, I'm so sorry!!" He went around and said "no worries, there's room for all of us."

My husband assured me that he was genuinely recognizing and displaying understanding of my honest mistake. But what he said ran thru my head no fewer than a hundred times thru the duration of our ride. 

"There's room for all of us."

I feel sad, worried, and angry about the ongoing presence and power of prejudice in our country, specifically in regards to the many devastating acts of racism in 2016.
Maybe we need the reminder that there is indeed room for all of us. 

If this year has taught me anything, it's this: I can't just agree that there's room for all of us and remain comfy in my own space, I need to be aware. Of others. Of my presence. Of my biases. Of opportunities to stand up for the rights of others. This is not about defending my space but rather recognizing where others deserve space and it is being denied. Explicitly and implicitly. 

In a few short weeks, a man who has outwardly expresses his superiority over others will become our president. In the next four years, we will be subject to his bigotry and crass expression of his prejudice ideals. We will suffer the impact of his decisions and his far too widely accepted discriminating views. 

But we won't take this sitting down. We'll stand together. We'll stand for each other. There's going to be days that hurt. Moments that are difficult as we fight for rights, equality, and equity. But we will fight. We will defend the notion that all races, genders, identities, and classes belong here. Because, well, there's room for all of us.