Life is tough…But so are you

Recently a very brave friend has been struggling, and sharing her struggle publicly on Facebook. In recent days she has shared, through words and pictures, that she is feeling vulnerable and broken.  My guess is her posts are making many people uncomfortable, but I see so much strength in her candor and her willingness to share her brokenness with the world.

One day this week, I commented on one of her posts to let her know I am thinking of her, praying for her, and cheering her on. My comment was – One minute at a time. One hour at a time. One day at a time. Whatever it takes to get you through. Her response was one of thanks, but in that she referred to me as “wonder woman”. And I cringed.  I am not a wonder woman.

I am a broken woman who is struggling in my own way each and learning to live my own advice – One minute at a time. One hour at a time. One day at a time. I share my story not from a place of strength, but from a place of vulnerability. Sharing makes me stronger, but I am really no wonder woman. Certainly no more of a wonder woman than my friend. She is brave and candid and something of a wonder in her own right.

In sharing her story, she is definitely helping herself. But more than that she is helping to open a dialogue about an often hidden reality for most people – the reality that no matter how strong we may appear to the world, we are in fact all a little broken. By sharing her story, she is stepping into the light and shouting, “Hey world! Look at me! I am struggling right now, but that is not where the story has to end. And if you are struggling too, know that you are not alone!”

By sharing her story, she is making space for others to share their own stories. In her brokenness there is beauty and light and strength. She is a wonder and an inspiration.


Fighting Together

July is the least favorite month of the year for my husband and me – the double whammy of it being an extra busy time of year for both of us at work, combined with balancing kids on Summer break means we rarely see each other during daylight hours, and sometimes don’t have conversations that go deeper than “Can you pick up milk on your way home?” In a “normal” year, the month of July is stressful and exhausting. This year – with the added chaos of refinancing our house, a visit to family in NJ, and having our son at work with me because panic disorder and day camp aren’t things that co-exist peacefully – and the stress levels have been astronomical all month. It’s been rough.

In the midst of this rough month, there have been a handful of incidents that made me stop and think about how other people perceive our marriage. At different points in this month, my husband and I both had people essentially ask how our marriage was handling the stress of our son’s current struggles. We both answered, without hesitation, that we are doing just fine, thank you very much.

Do we argue sometimes. Of course. Is there added stress on our marriage? No doubt.Is it easy? Nope. Is it fun? Not always. Is this what we dreamed of for our family. Heck no. But it is our reality, and we work with what we’re given. We work with what we’re given, and we have love and faith and stubborn streaks that win out when the days get hard.

We have love and faith and stubborn streaks that win out when the days get hard. We also have a relationship that predates kids by 13 years and is coming up on 24 years in duration. We’ve been together longer than we haven’t, and even in this this rough season of life there is no doubt we are meant to be walking through life together.

Part of the beauty of such a long, shared history are a handful of long, shared friendships. One such friend, somebody who has known us from the very beginning, was at our home recently. At some point in the evening, my husband and I disagreed about something. Our daughter told us to “stop fighting” and our friend replied, “But that’s what they do. That’s what they’ve always done.”

“That’s what they’ve always done.” There is absolute truth in that statement, but it isn’t as ominous as it sounds. There is probably more in life we disagree about, than we agree about. And we aren’t afraid to let each other know when we think the other is wrong. We generally agree to disagree on the small stuff – and it’s mostly small stuff – but we always find a way to come together on the big stuff. It’s worked for over two decades, and it works now as we navigate this latest chapter of our story.

And what a story it has been so far.

We met and fell in love as college freshmen. We came into the relationship with distinctly different world views and not much more in common than a mutual love of music and innate sarcasm. Add in the fact that our relationship was a long distance one, and the odds weren’t in our favor to survive the first month, let alone last through college. But we did.

And then we were 20-somethings trying to find our way in our prospective careers, and navigating what a not-long-distance relationship looked like for the first time. By this point we had grown into who we thought we were as a couple, and that didn’t exactly line up with who we needed to become as a couple to make it through the transition into the real world. It was bumpy and ugly, and sometimes frightening. But the one constant was our shared belief that we were worth fighting for.

So we fought for us, and just about the time that common lore would have you believe we “should have” outgrown each other, we were married. Our early married years were easy, compared to the seven years that preceded them. We found our groove in our respective careers, continued to grow together, and settled into a generally happy little life.

Then came the years of struggling with infertility. That could have been enough to tear us apart, but it just made us stronger. And the day we found out I was finally pregnant, was also the day my husband found out he’d been accepted into his first choice of graduate school programs. He started business school 6 weeks before our son was born and by the time he graduated 3 years later, our family had grown from 3 to 4 with the surprise addition of our daughter – a surprise that kept me on bed rest for much of the second half of the pregnancy, with a toddler and a husband traveling for business while also completing grad school. Those years redefined “hard” for us and redefined us once again as a couple. Once again, it was bumpy and ugly and sometimes frightening (and this time also exhausting). But the constant remained our unwavering belief that we were worth fighting for.

So once again, we fought for us. And eventually we settled into a new rhythm and a generally happy little life. We bumped along together. Figured out how to be parents together. We adjusted, and adjusted, and adjusted again as the kids grew up and their needs changed. We worked with what we were given, and when that suddenly included a son struggling under the weight of anxiety and depression, we used all of our energy to fight for him. We fight together to get him the care and support he needs. We fight together to make sure he feels safe and loved always. We fight together to help him find his way in this world. We fight together for our son, and for our daughter, and for ourselves. We fight, it’s what we’ve always done.

So if you were to ask us how we are doing, we will likely tell you we are doing just fine, thank you very much. This is our reality, and all of the difficult times that preceded this truly hard season of life built us up to the people,  and the couple,  and the parents we need to be to meet this challenge. This is our reality, and while I wish for an “easy” day once in a while and for more quality time with my husband, I wouldn’t trade away one second of this life we’ve built together.




Back on Track to Black

My son began training in the martial art of ninjitsu when he was 7 years old. From the very first lesson he loved it and was hooked. By the time he had trained long enough and showed enough mastery of technique to advance to his second belt, he had declared his intent to become a black belt. The Timehop app on my phone was kind enough to remind me this morning that the day he made that statement was exactly 3 years ago today.


Ordinarily, seeing a reminder like that would have been an “aww, I remember that” sort of moment. This morning, however, that memory was perfectly timed to be a saving grace.

For a long time, the dojo was one of my son’s few “safe places.”  Even when he was having major anxiety and panic attacks most other places in his life, the dojo remained a safe place. That all changed  at the beginning of June when he had the first of several panic attacks at the dojo. The panic attacks were followed by doubts and anxiety about his physical ability to train and worry about what the sensei, instructors and other kids would think of him. The dojo no longer felt safe and he began to have panic attacks just thinking about having to go there. He declared his intention to quit.

Since the very thought of the dojo had become a trigger for him, we decided to let him take a break. He missed most of the month of June and the beginning of July – including a rank test and a belt test that would have advanced him to brown belt (2 belts away from being a black belt).

Over the weekend, my husband and I decided that this was the week we were going to try to get him to return. He’s been on his new medications for almost 3 weeks, and while he still has high levels of anxiety and there are still panic attacks as well as episodes of anger and depression, in general he is steadier than he was back in June. We knew that the longer he stayed away from the dojo, the harder it would be to get him back. We also knew that even if he said he didn’t care anymore about earning a black belt, he didn’t really mean it.

So yesterday there were several conversations about today being the day he would go back. He wasn’t on board. There were tears, mild panic, and anger. He continued to declare his intentions to quit. And right when I thought we might not ever convince him – we went with a minor bribe.

He had been asking for permission to buy a couple of graphic novels for his Kindle, and we had not allowed it. The possibility of purchasing those graphic novels was enough of a carrot last night, that by the time he went to bed his screaming protests had mellowed into quiet sighs. This morning he asked if he could still get the books if he went to class this afternoon. I told him yes, and then I showed him the picture from Timehop. I reminded him about the goal he once set for himself, how much love he has for ninjitsu, and how far he’s already come toward meeting his goal. And then I prayed he would be able to make it to the dojo and through his class without having a panic attack.

He went. He was nervous, but he went. He made it through class, and at one point was even laughing with his training partner. He did it! And he’s talking about the “next class”. And he asked if I had been able to reschedule his missed belt test. He’s back on track to black! (And at this very moment sitting on the couch devouring the 2 graphic novels we purchased as soon as we got home from the dojo!)

To The Parent of My Son’s Friend

While our family support system is fairly vast, my son’s personal support system has shrunk as he struggles with anxiety, panic and depression. So we are exceedingly thankful for the kids who continue to make the effort to be his friend and to the parents who continue to open their homes to him. Yesterday  he got a little “normal” in his life.



I Hate That Red Wristband

This is our first full week of summer vacation. I wrote last week about how challenging the break would be this year – one kid at home trying to avoid anxiety and panic triggers, one kid at a different day camp each week, and me trying to balance both of them while also muddling through one of my busiest work seasons of the year.

The hardest thing in all of that is helping my son through his minutes, hours, days. We talked a ton in recent weeks about how weekdays would be. We negotiated, and planned, and negotiated some more. And we came up with a plan that seems solid and doable. Part of that plan included giving him this first full week of summer to do (almost) anything he wanted (almost) all day.

Last night was rough. I was talking him through the things he would “have to” do today – including coming with me to drop his sister and a friend at day camp and making up a ninjutsu belt test that he missed over the weekend. He wasn’t happy about either of those “have to” items and we spent about an hour cycling through anger, anxiety, and sadness before we could calm him down enough to go to bed.

This morning, it was as if last night never happened. He got in the car with no trouble when it was time to drive the girls to camp, and, on his own,  double checked what time we would have to leave for the dojo for his belt test. I even felt good enough about his state of mind to leave him at home alone for about an hour while I got an allergy shot and picked up some groceries.

The middle part of the day was calm. He watched YouTube videos and I multi tasked on laundry and some work emails. He seemed just fine when I gave him 60 minute, 30 minute, 15 minute, 10 minute, and 5 minute warnings for turning off the computer. I was feeling incredibly hopeful about how the day was going.

But then it was 2pm – time to turn off the computer, put on his gi and go to the dojo. And just like that, he was having a panic attack. It was bad enough that I had to give in and say he did not have to go to the dojo. That piece of information minimized his panic and anxiety, but those were quickly replaced by immense sadness and self-hatred – which for him lately are also accompanied by attempts to hurt himself and requests for other people to hurt him too. It’s ugly, and heartbreaking, and messy, and exhausting. I spent 30 minutes literally holding him down and talking to him calmly as he thrashed and cried and tried to hurt himself. By the end we were both physically and emotionally fried.

A couple of hours later, my daughter was dropped off after day camp. I was excited to hear about her day, and stepped outside to greet her, the friend and the friend’s father. My daughter went barreling past me without a word. Her friend said “We had so much fun! We both got red wristbands.” Her friend’s father said, “She’s upset that she didn’t get the blue wristband.”

The wristbands are for levels of swim proficiency. You need a blue wristband to use the kayaks in the bay. The red wristband only gets you access to a row boat or the dragon boat with an adult. My daughter had been looking forward to kayaking. The red wristband was cause for major tween drama and angst. After the afternoon I’d had with her brother, I did not have the head space, or the energy, or the wherewithal to deal with tween drama and angst. In not my finest parenting moment, I essentially told her to get over it and added that she should probably stay in her room until she could find a more pleasant attitude.

With a little bit of space and perspective, I can empathize with her frustration – especially after she told me that her stomach was hurting during the swim test. She’s been struggling with tummy trouble for a few days, and on another day she probably could have passed the test for the blue wristband. She hates that red wristband, and honestly so do I.

A blue wristband would not have changed what happened during the day with her brother, but it would have allowed her to come home in a better mood. I hate that red wristband and the added emotions it brought into our house today. I hate that red wristband for taking fun away from my daughter (even though there is still plenty of amazing fun to be had without the blue wristband). I hate that red wristband because its presence on my daughter’s arm means that both of my kids are hurting today.

Both of my kids are hurting today. Her hurt isn’t as big or potentially life altering as his hurt, but it is just as real. It is just as real, and in some ways even more heartbreaking. She has missed out on a ton of stuff this past year because of her brother’s battle with anxiety, panic and depression. She has had to be mature beyond her years more times than I like to acknowledge. She has had a really rough year, and we really want her to have an amazing summer to heal some of her wounds. Today wasn’t a great start. But there’s tomorrow, and the next day, and 71 more days after that for fun, and laughter, and healing of wounds.

But I still hate that red wristband…



Summer Is Coming

My kids have exactly 3 hours of school left in the 2015-2016 school year. That means Summer Break begins at 12:01pm tomorrow afternoon.

Summer break this year is most likely going to be anything other than restful. With my son’s anxiety levels as high as they are right now, and potential triggers for panic attacks lurking almost everywhere, he doesn’t feel like he “can” or “wants to” do any day camps. He just wants to stay home. And I get that.

But then there is my daughter who wants to do everything, and not miss out an anything. And I also get that.

And then there is the fact that my Vacation Bible School is the first week of August, so the next 6 weeks are actually one of my busiest work seasons.

So right now I feel like this…


But I am trying really hard to remain positive, and flexible, and optimistic. Hopefully most days I can be more like this…


Because whether I am ready for it or not…Summer officially starts tomorrow at 12:01pm!