Father’s Day

I think most pregnant women throughout their pregnancy think a ton about how their husband will be as a father. I know I did. We’ve always had a very equal partnership and I wondered if that would continue as we grew our family, since I had heard the opposite from so many other women.

Scott goes above and beyond for our son every day. I don’t know a dad who does more for his family and though I try not to get too braggy about all he does for us, I’m always making an effort to thank him and tell him how much I appreciate all he does.

In light of Father’s Day, if there is one day of the year that I am going to brag on my husband, this is it.

It started in the earliest days of my pregnancy. Him making sure I had enough sleep, proper nutrition, exercise, and foot massages – even though he can’t stand feet. It continued when we learned of Luke’s critical congenital heart defect – he researched, asked questions, became an expert on his son’s heart. I watched closely as he redid a bedroom for his unborn son – rebuilt a closet and chose paint color and decor. I saw his physical labor of love and determination to make things just right.

I remember the look on his face the night I was admitted to the hospital in a critical state, with the news Luke would have to be delivered early. He stayed by our side the entire weekend. He took care of us – of everything – when I was not even able to care for myself.

And when Luke arrived and was transported to St. Christopher’s Hospital for Children, he joined him immediately. He texted me photos and videos of our son for 3 days because he knew how hard I was struggling, having to be separated from them. I remember the phone call he made to me, such pride and joy and love in his voice, telling me what a “cool little dude” he is and how I have to focus on getting better so I can join them soon.

Scott was Daddy, but he was also Mommy to Luke in the first few days when I could not be present. He changed our son’s very first diaper, gave him pacifiers, participated in his care, held him and sat and talked to him for hours on end, day and night.

We were supposed to be there together – partners, parents – yet he did it all alone, and he loved him enough for the both of us.

I remember how he researched breast milk and proceeded to inform me of all the many benefits and the differences between foremilk and hindmilk and I recall thinking to myself, “who IS this man?”

I so distinctly remember how on multiple occasions he helped hold my pumping parts in place because I did not have a hands-free bra and hadn’t anticipated that I would need to pump because I wanted to nurse. How he brought me hot compresses, bottles of water, made sure I ate every meal.

I remember how he was my biggest cheerleader and supporter during the toughest days…and how he loved Luke more than anything in this world and would do anything for him, including waking up multiple times a night to feed or comfort him. How he would never leave his side.

I remember the way Luke slept on his chest for hours and how he loved every second of it. I remember the way his face lit up the first time he said “da da,” ate his first solids, rolled over and crawled, and took his first step.

I could go on and on about how he helps so much around the house, cooks dinner for us most nights or does sweet things like wash my car or refill my gas tank when he notices it is low.

And how during the extremely stressful and scary times of caring for a child with multiple medical needs and never-ending diagnoses, tests and procedures, brings you to your knees, he is always there, kneeling right beside me or ready with strong and open arms to lift us all up.

I think the bottom line is that he cares so much about our family that it’s natural for him to be a wonderful partner and father. It’s a quality I very much admire in him and one that I know will set a good example for Luke as he grows and learns about love and relationships.

I feel so fortunate to be able to celebrate Scott on Father’s Day, taking a moment to acknowledge all of the things he does, big and small, and how they make our time together as a family so special. How he always makes us feel so very special and loved.

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Heartiversary

Four years ago today, as snow began to heavily blanket the earth in the early morning hours, we prepared for the unpreparable.

I remember my head and heart in constant battle as we learned the medical team was having difficulty getting to the hospital due to road conditions. If they didn’t arrive and surgery was postponed I’d get to hold on to my baby just a little longer…I wouldn’t have to face this.

My head knew he needed surgery to survive but my heart and arms just wouldn’t let him go. The halls were silent that morning but for my muffled cries. I was numb as Scott and I wheeled him to the OR doors. I fought the fearful thoughts creeping in my mind, as this walk eerily felt like a funeral procession…and I was so afraid it was.

I was cold and hollow and at the same time, full of more love and warmth than I’ve ever known.

Physically ill with fear, my stomach was somersaulting in my throat, then plummeting to my feet and back up again. In one minute I was preparing myself to say a forever goodbye and in the next, I knew with all that was in me, that he would be okay. I was like a ball with all the pain of being slammed to the ground and then tossed high up to the sky in exhilarating joy. Up and down, up and down, for all the hours of his surgery until I could lay my burning and bloodshot eyes on him once again.

(1/3/14 post op)

I’ve never spoken of the fear I had in this very moment. It’s something I try not to think about too much. It wasn’t for lack of faith in our medical team, it was the knowledge that our children are never really ours…they belong to God…and He calls them home in His time. His time – not mine. I was not in control.

Would Luke’s purpose have been served in his one month and 10 days on this earth? I prayed with all that I was, that it wasn’t. I prayed for a long, healthy, happy life. Together.

Our walk down winding and sterile halls that morning was a walk to new life. It was a walk to rebirth. The door to Luke’s heart was opened that morning and he was gifted life for the second time. Life I could not ever give him.

(Happy Heartiversary cake)

There are times on this earth when we can prepare…and there are times when no amount of preparation will ever be enough. Times we are in control and times when all control must be surrendered. In those hours all we can do is hold on to each other, to Love. Hold on to faith. Hold on to the Peace that there is so much more than this life…so much more.

As mom to a heart warrior, I honor life with that knowledge, living every day in love, faith and so much thankfulness.

Happy Heartiversary, my sweetest Luke.

❤️💙

The Truth Of How To Be Strong

As I scoured the preschool floor for my missing earring, I heard her voice…”You are so amazing. I don’t know how you do it every day. You’re so strong. Like a supermom.”


Preschool drop off has never really been easy and lately, we are truly struggling – in many areas and ways. This particular instance involved quite a bit of physical and mental struggle and it took a lot reassurance, use of our picture schedule and storytelling. It took me sitting on the floor, face to face and heart to heart as I squeezed him so tightly I could feel it beating, my lips touching his soft little ear as I whispered our mantra of sorts, “You’re safe. You will have the best day ever. Mommy will come back after nap and snack. I always come back. I love you.”

As I stood up, brushing from my sweaty face, pieces of hair that had been yanked from the messy bun I’d slept in the night before, our eyes met. She’d seen me drop him off countless times. She’s seen us on the verge of meltdowns, the panic in his eyes when he realized his coat hook and cubby had moved location.

We never really spoke before this day, other than the customary etiquette that often ensues as parents go about the weekday ritual of delivering their children to daycare and preschool before heading to work. And largely, that’s because I’m usually always on the verge of tears as I leave the building. I want to say more, but I can’t. I need to hold it together until the car…God just let me make it to the damn car in time.

So many times, mothers of children with special needs are praised for their strength, perseverance and determination in raising their children. While it’s great being reminded that you’re a good parent, there is something inherently uncomfortable when you are told you are strong for raising your child that has special needs. When people share these sentiments, I know they mean no harm. If anyone reading has said this to me – or a parent raising a child with special needs – I understand it all comes from a good place. However, deep within me there is such an unsettled feeling that while the world around me sees me as this fearless, caped supermom, I know that on the inside I am insecure, scared, and every day, so completely overwhelmed by the road I am on.

When someone tells me I’m strong, there is a part of me that wants to scream at the top of my lungs how utterly weak and defeated I feel. I often nod my head, take the compliment, and know most parents in my situation likely feel that their strength is NOT an option. When you have a child that is medically fragile, autistic, developmentally delayed, or intellectually disabled, the only person that can advocate and fight for that child is the parent. There are only two choices (1) you take on the fight (2) you abandon your child. Most parents could never conceive of leaving their child, and therefore the only choice they have is to put on their big kid pants and plough forward, full steam – just like Thomas the tank engine. 

That particular morning at drop-off, and every time I hear it, the most difficult part of being told that I’m strong is that I feel like it means I’m not allowed to be weak or have moments where I don’t feel confident or happy. It feels like a lie. Most days it feels like I have to put on a brave face, but in reality, all I want to do is hide in my closet and cry on the floor – and I have. I never feel like I can be scared, frustrated, overwhelmed or sad because I have to be strong for my child. Over the past few months, I’ve come to the slow realization that I don’t have to be strong all the time. It’s getting too hard…

To all the moms in this special needs community, you certainly don’t need it, but you have permission to have a bad day…to cry…to scream…and to feel hopeless – and not feel guilty for any of it. We cannot always hold it all together. If we don’t stop to feel our emotions, we will only find ways to destroy ourselves.

The world sees us as superheroes for our children, and I imagine they believe we are cloaked in our vibrant capes as we dash to various appointments. But do you want to know the truth? The truth is that no single person is capable of being a superhero all the time. It’s natural to feel weak, to feel sad, and to grieve the life you thought you’d have…and the one you are now living. It doesn’t mean you are ungrateful or love your child any less.

The next time someone tells you how strong you are and how much they admire the color of your cape and your ability to be supermom, I challenge you to be vulnerable and messy with the people in your life. Tell them you don’t always feel strong. Tell them there are days you feel like it’s absolutely impossible to deal with any more stress…and that you just need someone to let you not be strong…for just a minute.

When I have forced myself to get honest with my friends and family, I have found that this is where I find my real strength. I feel their support as they listen to all my frustrations and sadness. We can’t keep it all in, all the time.

I encourage you to NOT be strong every single day. I’m working on it, and you should too. Your sanity depends on your ability to process all these feelings. Once you’ve had a chance to feel weak, it is only then, you will know the truth of how to be strong.

To The Mom Stressed and Worried About Her Child’s Health

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Dear worried and stressed Mom,

I see you. I see you smiling and hustling and bustling through life. Going to work, working from home, in the grocery store, running the roads, the parks, stroller in toe. Happiness and laughter, but with a slight twist of hesitation. I see the shadows lurking in the corners, ready to stomp across the sunshine in your eyes. The imminent gray that grows and swells, and in a moment, will envelope your happy – if you let it.

I see you going about your day, responsibilities and regrets. Worries if you are spending enough quality time with him. Phone calls to doctors and therapists can wait – but they can’t…I see you pulled and stretched, molded and shaped in directions of choice and directions of fear. Like warm, pulled putty in a toddler’s hands, you’re thin, drooping and sagging. Good, bad, insensitive and well-meaning remarks – they all cling to you, lost in the sticky sea of your soul, they become a part of you. Don’t let them become you.

I see you late at night, wearily standing at your kitchen counter, drawing weekly meds. You wait until he sleeps, for this disease has robbed enough of your time together – you will give no more. While most have a junk drawer, yours is chock full of medical supplies and drug interaction pamphlets. I know what’s in your head – with every pull of the plunger, filling a vial higher and higher, flick of the syringe – this isn’t fair.

Doing this isn’t fair. Being here isn’t fair. This life is sometimes so unfair. So full of hurt you can’t explain unless to another who has also been there. You hurt for your child, although they know no different – you do. And you weep inside and out for what they must endure. You weep because you feel helpless, powerless and you must watch them endure.

I see the pain behind the smile. It lurks in the words of positivity you often speak. You can’t fool me. I know you. I know your scared, overflowing, joyful and broken heart. I know it has no bottom for that dear one you adore. I know it stings. I know it’s sore.

Momma, I feel you. I feel your heartaches, your nausea, your headaches, your sleepless nights, the hesitation in your step as you drag yourself forward because –  THERE. IS. NO. OTHER. WAY. I feel the desperation in your longing – the day you pray will come – when worry of health and sickness will wither away, wash away. Please – take all this away.

I hear your heart stop when the doctor enters the room with results. When a fever is never just a fever, a cough is always something more, weekly therapies, visits to specialists and the ER are your normal. I know the staggering halt that encompasses your entire being. When the world stops revolving and begins spinning, spinning, spinning, out of your control. I know you want to make it stop.

I smell the sweet victory when you can overcome that fear – fight the foe with all that is in you, and then nestle tightly in the quiet moments where the intoxicating scent of your child’s head, the stroke of your finger along his soft and fleshy cheek, holding tiny feet in the palm of your hand, is the elixir of all that is right, and good enough, to always bring you back. Back to carefree, worry-free, stress-free. Even if only for a little while.

I see you there. Soaking in every. precious. moment. Because we know too well, Momma, another one of these is never guaranteed.

I see you playing with him, chasing, tickling, giggling, loving. Wholehearted love. Fierce love. Love that defies anything this messed up earth could bring. A love that fights, hopes, and a love that stings like no other when you find you are helpless to the illnesses and diseases beyond your control.

I see you struggling to keep it all together, Momma. Fighting back the tears, the lump that grows in your throat that you never let out – can’t let out – are afraid to let out. I see you change the station because you simply cannot listen to “that” song – not today, not now. Maybe not ever. I see you congratulate a new mom, and I also see you cry in secret as the pain of your own losses, missed opportunities and anger over a cruel disease, overtake you. I know the guilt you will feel – for everything. For being too much, too little, not enough, wanting more, having more than you believe you deserve. For wishing your child never had to endure life living this fear. That you, wouldn’t have to live this fear.

I know that sometimes when you cry it comes out of your eyes, but sometimes, many times, it just stays in your soul.

I see you strong, Momma. I see you now. I’ve seen you in the past and I know I will see you again. Please listen to me. Read my words. Take my words. You are stronger than you know. You have more fire and feist than a pen of wild bulls, because this is your baby – your heart, your soul. When you feel weak and fragile, like you can’t even make it to your pillow – trust. With all that is in you, trust, and keep your faith close. Power comes in times like these. Strength comes in times like these – where in that brave, costly, intentional action of the heart, pure love wholly lives.

I know you, Momma. I hear you and I see you, and we never need words to speak what we know of each other in our hearts. Your worry is my worry. Your fear is my fear. My strength is your strength – so take it. When you are running low and weary from the fight, press on. When your chest is heavy and you can’t breathe, see the beauty in front of you, pour your heart into the joy that is before you. Hold that baby tight and carry him through…and I will carry you.

Peace be still, Momma. Peace be still.

Purpose

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I think a lot about my purpose now. It was somewhat clear before, but not as deep. Important, but not nearly as moving. I was a wife, engaged in and climbing my way in a demanding, full-time career. I was a loyal friend, family member and volunteer. I was balancing it all nicely – squeezing in everything I needed to do along with everything I wanted to personally achieve. In retrospect, my stress was low – after what I have now experienced and continue to face.

When Luke was diagnosed with a congenital heart defect, my thoughts and emotions shifted. Once he was born, my entire purpose shifted. My world was gone. Laurel was gone. Everything I had been working for and towards, was placed on the back burner. In one instant, all those things were gone. My purpose transformed to heart and drug researcher, sacrificial mother, and fighter.

And now? Where am I after most of the dust has settled? Who am I? What will I do with what I have learned – am learning – from this beautiful and scary journey?

My brain is the same – it desires inquiry, craves to-do lists and work, fulfillment, challenge, and success.

My perspective is changed – it is rare – I am quicker to judge in some ways and I am more accepting in most. I do not tolerate BS – at all. I don’t care about most trivial things.

My eyes are more clear – seeing into hearts, seeing pain, strugglers alongside me, individuals fighting battles each day. I see what matters – joy, hope, heartache, love, faith, and miracles.

Then there’s my heart…my heart is so not the same. In some ways it is blacker, it has been broken and pieced back together, stronger than it ever was before. It has been shocked, tormented, tangled and tested, and has been made more aware. It has been tuned in to the good stuff in this life – the magic, the miracles – that life can bring. It feels the pain of others more tenderly and most often doesn’t have need for words. It craves the beauty that my son brings to my life.

And so now, still enmeshed in this medical journey, I think “What’s next for me?” How does a 39-year-old mother progress after, and while going through, what is a transformation of my very core? What do the next years mean for me? Where should my personal path take me?

My first desire and thought each morning before my feet even hit the floor is to be the most engaged and loving momma to my precious boy and to show my husband how much I love him. In spite of all the demands that challenge and test us, these two beings are my world, my everything. Most days this is simple – those are my goals. Then I ponder the bigger picture – how will I use my journey? What purpose, aside from my own lessons, can be gained and given to others. I am traveling this road, I have to do something with it.

I hope that I live my life as example of faith, joy, love, and determination, but I feel at times it is not enough. And so I turn to writing this blog to sort out the thoughts and make sense of the experiences and lessons learned. I am reminded that this journey really isn’t about me, nor is it about Luke. It is about what HE is doing in our lives – the testimony God began in our story and the ribbons of hope He is weaving throughout our journey of faith.

Purpose – for now mine is to give encouragement, perhaps change the heart of someone sharing a similar journey. To be an example of dwelling in the precious moments with your babies, holding their cheeks softly to yours, looking closely at their little profiles and wide eyes as they discover the world around them, and embrace their magic. To recognize that there are strugglers all around you – fighting things you cannot see, or imagine – you may even be one of them. Take to heart that you cannot ever plan for what is to come, and one day you may be that struggling soul, so you soak up today and all of its blessings.

You find your purpose where the tethers of this mortal life no longer bind you and your heart is free to take shape and soar with compassion and love and wherein His grace, is always enough.

Moments

Over the weekend I was running errands with Luke in tow. Having skipped his nap in lieu of playing and squealing and being a toddler, he was resting his heavy head on my chest as we stood in line at the check out. His bustling little body and busy hands, now resting on my shoulder with a gentle grip on my shirt collar.

I had just been making arrangements for his next surgery prior to our stop at the store and was lost in thought running through mental notes of what still needed to be secured for his procedure. I was swaying back and forth, Luke slowing drifting in and out of sleep. I kissed his head, gave him a snuggling squeeze, and breathed him in. The woman in line behind me kindly leaned forward and very sweetly told me to make sure I enjoy these moments – that one day they will be gone too quickly.

I nodded my head and gave her a smile, thanked her, and proceeded to check out, all the while thinking to myself – “she doesn’t know”.

She doesn’t know how my heart yearned for him before he was ever conceived. She doesn’t know the absolute and sheer elation of confirming a pregnancy I thought would never happen. The 6 pregnancy tests I took on Mother’s Day morning (not to mention all the ones in days prior) and the tackling leap I made into my husband’s arms afterward. Or, that before I even took those 6 tests, I had an instinct that told me I was pregnant and saved me from taking a medication an ER doctor prescribed because he said I “likely lost the baby and probably have irritable bowel”.

She doesn’t know that when I heard his heartbeat for the very first time, it was the most beautiful and breathtaking sound I would ever know. That it was strong and quick, and such a gift. And that 13 weeks later that same heartbeat, as strong as it was, would lead us to discovering he had a critical congenital heart defect.

She doesn’t know the shock I felt, and that in an instant, all my joy was replaced with stagnating fear.

She doesn’t know the journal I started for him that Mother’s Day, telling him how much he was wanted and already loved. Or the letters I would write to him from my heart, sharing happenings of our day, and then telling him of his diagnosis, and how much it hurt.

She doesn’t know that I ceased all planning on his nursery. That I closed the door to the room where he would one day sleep, and for a little while, closed the door to my heart. That I didn’t want a baby shower, clothing, toys or empty albums, because it hurt too much – the thought he might never use them and I might never get to fill them.

She doesn’t know the sadness that overcame me or how hard I fought to push it out – and won.

She doesn’t know that on the day I pulled out all the stops and made a decision to love in spite of all the “what-ifs”, the door to his room reopened and with it, a tide of love so strong, it would wipe out anything and anyone in its path. That that very room would become the only place I would find solace and safety, and feel close to him when I came home, and he didn’t.

She doesn’t know how weeks of ultrasounds and tests leading up to his birth brought me closer to him. How seeing his magnificent and delicate body flicker across a screen, learning every facet of his heart, would further solidify my commitment to him.

She doesn’t know how with every passing day, carrying his beautiful body in my womb, knowing full well challenges would lie ahead, that I vowed to love him through it all. For hours I would sit, talking to just him, loving him. I would lie awake in the night – his most active time – just to feel him move because I feared I might never have the chance once he was born.

She doesn’t know how hard and often I prayed, begging God to just let me keep him. And that no matter what, I would love him in life and I would love him in death, if God called him home.

She doesn’t know how I labored with him – becoming so ill, both our lives in jeopardy. The moments when his heart rate began to plummet and my body was giving out. Facing a heart-wrenching reality and making it known that at all costs, Luke must be saved.

She doesn’t know once he was born, I never heard his first cry or that I don’t fully remember him being laid beside me an hour later, his precious face I would not see through all the tape and tubing. Three days I would wait to see him again and the reunion, so much like coming home. The other half of my heart lying in a NICU, so frail, so tiny – so mine.

She doesn’t know the hours upon hours I spent at his bedside. So many sleepless nights of worry and because I just wouldn’t leave him. Setting alarms reminding me to pump because it was the only thing I could do for my baby, and all the while, machine suctioning, I would sob. I sobbed because this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I sobbed because I wanted my baby to my breast, not a sterile, cold machine. I sobbed because I had seen another mother lose her precious boy just moments before, and I too, now understood the delicate balance of life. And I sobbed.

She doesn’t know the fears and tears I have shed – joy and sadness. Handing my baby to a surgeon, not knowing if he would ever come back to me and when he did, the rejoicing in my heart at his new life.

She doesn’t know how my heart was being prepared for a baby I thought I might lose – a baby that I needed more than he ever needed, or will need me.

If she knew these things…how I still rock him before bed every night, sometimes to his dismay. Or that I check on him before I drift to sleep and then again like clockwork, awake in the middle of the night, to watch him breathe. That I see him – really see him – play and interact, and I admire him, adore him, for all he has achieved.

If she knew we still have a pebbly and uncertain road ahead, or all the many ways he’s making strides. That a milestone is so much more than that – it is extraordinary – and how my heart swells and leaps when he learns something new and is so proud of himself.

And when he’s racing around all full of boy – screaming and yelling and dirty, causing fantastic destruction in his path, and so trustingly throws himself into my arms, I feel his heart thumping and pumping, red cheeks and sweaty brow — I know. I know full well, these are the moments. Such precious moments. If she knew all my heart holds – life-altering experience that cannot be unseen or unfelt – she would know, it is in these moments that I fully live every minute of every day.

Life lived isn’t always to be measured in years. It is in the depth. Live fully. Love deeply. No regrets. Mind the moments.

Enough

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“Do you know how special you are? Do you know how much Mommy loves you?”

As I drew him into my chest, nestled tightly in my arms, I whispered in his ear. I tickled him under the arm, he giggled and squirmed, trying to toddle away – I only had his attention for a few seconds. I snuck a quick kiss on the bridge of his nose, and just like that, he was off again.

He’s 18 months now and ready to take on his world. He’s curious, and yet, still cautious. He’s bold. He is relentless and can be impatient. He is determined. He is focused. His enthusiasm is unbridled and untainted. There is adventure waiting, and he’s on the cusp of the age where he knows it. He is sensitive. All animals – fictional or otherwise – are friends (or named, Greta), and are deserving of his hugs and kisses. His heart is real and it is big.

Growing up, I was a very sensitive child. I was the kid who wore her heart on her sleeve, apologized to my animals, made sure no one felt left out. I was the girl who sat with the lonely kid because I couldn’t, not. I treated others – including inanimate objects – with the sensitivity and attention I so desperately craved. I learned early on the world was not as soft as my stuffed animals, and not everyone would treat me in the same way.

I was young, I can’t recall the exact age, but I can pinpoint one of my very first moments of rejection. I wanted to climb in to my mother’s lap. I wanted to snuggle. To feel secure, to feel safe. I was rejected. It was “too hot” or she was “too busy” or I was “too heavy”. Transition to pre-teen years when I was self-conscious, even more sensitive. My self-esteem was a seesaw that in a moment, could plummet to the unforgiving asphalt beneath. I was mocked by my own mother for doing my hair, painting my nails – for what I now realize, was taking a little pride in my physical self. In those moments, teetering low, I prayed the black abyss would swallow me whole. I was devastated. I spent most of my childhood being a social chameleon just to get the acceptance I so deeply wanted. Needed.

I eventually learned to laugh it all off – rejection. My skin grew thicker, my emotions buried deeper, only to be unlocked in later years. I have grown and learned since I was a child. I realized I could live like a victim, I could continue to love in spite of it all, or I could become cynical. My choice vacillated between #2 and #3.

I wanted to be everyone’s everything. I wanted to be the favorite. I wanted to be the pretty one. I wanted to be the thin one. I wanted to be the popular one. I wanted to be the athletic one. I wanted to be the smart one. I wanted to be the creative one. I wanted to be the funny one. I wanted to be the trusted friend. I wanted to be everything – to be it all. The people pleaser – THAT’S ME! I wanted to be loved. I soon realized that in order to have everyone like me, I had to be many things, and it was exhausting. To some, I was too nice, so I needed to be tougher. To others I was too aloof, so I needed to be more sociable. It left me realizing that I no longer knew who I was.

It’s taken time and experience for me to realize not everyone will like me – and that’s okay. I will hold myself to a standard of grace, not perfection.

I am certain as I continue this blog and my honest writing, I may have friends who depart from my life. And I also know, I will gain new ones. Before I started this blog I worried constantly about putting myself out there, and in my inevitable style, made a pro and con list. It was PACKED with “what ifs.” What if someone doesn’t like the real me? What if someone thinks I’m weird? What if I offend someone? What if I’m doing life all wrong? What if someone takes what I write the wrong way? WHAT IF?! And in the pro column, scribbled all by its lonesome, “why not now.”

The time to be real is now. To be authentically and unapologetically, YOU.

Although I occasionally still get stuck on that seesaw and can get caught up in the cycle, I know I cannot be everyone’s everything. I can’t be everyone’s favorite, everyone’s friend. People will love me and people will hate me. People will judge me and people will accept me. Take me or leave me, people will be people and my purpose in this life is not to win them over.

We were not placed on this earth for everyone to like us. We are here to be true to the individual purposes we have been given.

I know one of my purposes: to give all the love I have to a brave and beautiful boy with innocence in his eyes and a spirit bright as the sun. I know I am here to give him myself. My time, my energy, my hugs, my kisses. To put all my heart into raising him, nurturing him, helping him grow into everything he can be. I can’t be a favorite to everyone, but I can be his favorite. Every time I put down the phone, the to-do lists, toss out the worry, the fears. Every time I scoop his 25 pound body into my arms and smell his hair. Every time I lay on the floor and let him crawl all over me. Every time I make his day by taking him to the park for a run, act silly and [so badly] dance around the room to watch him laugh. Every time I play cars, roll the ball, and scream and yell just because we can. Every time I rock him and sing our special song. Every moment I am consistent and faithful in following through on my promises to him, and to raising him with all the best that is in me – that is enough. Every hour. Every day. Every week. That is why I am here.

I have a little boy who needs to know that being himself is more than enough. And when the day comes when the world reveals its true colors and his heart is bruised, I will not let it harden. I will tell him,

“Do you know how special you are? Do you know how much I love you? Always be you, no matter what. You are more than enough. Not everyone will like you, and that’s okay. You are loved. You are always loved.”

We are all enough. You are enough. I am enough. Quirks, flaws, highest highs and lowest lows, you are enough. Don’t you ever change. You are loved. Always loved.