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.

❤️💙

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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.

Rescue Patrol

He fought the tears and tried to be strong, anxiously wringing his not so chubby – but still little – almost 4 year old hands, until they were red.

I searched him if only for just a glimmer of understanding…begged him to use his words, to tell me – even one word – how he felt.

And then finally, a quiver in his soft, small voice, sounding as if it carried with it the death weight caused by all the archers tools, it came…

”shaky…it makes my inside…shaky…Mommy”. 

There’s no on/off switch when it comes to parenting. You’re 100% in, or you’re not. Some days that means being the rescue patrol to your little darling when therapies don’t go as planned. 

Having any time to myself is an extreme rarity, as I’m sure many moms can relate. Today was supposed to be that day for me…to relax, decorate, zone out while cooking a delicious meal. Those things won’t happen. Not today.

And yet it’s okay.

Because some days – actually, most days – we don’t even get to scratch the surface of what we had planned.

Some days life isn’t okay.

And in those uncertain moments of heartbreak and suffering, we must seek to understand. We must do our best to accept and sit with the discomfort of all that is, knowing that it’s okay for every soul, to not be okay sometimes.

And so we sit, silent and shaking, holding onto each other, to love.

Holding fast to the magnificent power that comes when parenting through the pain. 

When I Called

I met God for the first time when I was six years old. I was riding in my grandmother’s car on the way to church. It was a warm and humid summer morning, windows down, the smell of farm fresh air blowing through the old sedan, my legs sticking to the vinyl seat, and unruly pieces of messy ponytail tickling my nose as the winds blew. And we met.
I met God again years later when I was twenty-two, standing in the cold autumn rain. Thick, heavy gray clouds blanketed the sky, as I stared at a white plaster house that was never a home, a piece of me forever gone, forever longed for, yet never mine to have had. And we met. Kind of the same way you meet a stranger in line at a coffee shop. Except that He wasn’t a stranger. He was someone I had known my whole life.
I met Samina for the first time when I was thirty-eight years old. It was a beautifully gorgeous day in August. And we met. Not in the way I would have wanted, because it meant my son would have a kidney defect, and she would become his ever vigilant doctor. Yet still, it felt kind of the same way you meet one of your oldest friends from grade school. Except that she wasn’t really an old friend. She was someone I had only just met.

My relationship with God can be complicated at times. Not because it actually is…but rather, because I’m a part of it, and in turn, complexity ensues. I still feel very immature in my faith, and as a result, I often find myself fighting with God. I still want control. I still want answers. I still want reassurance that everything will be okay. But He is patient with me and remains by my side even when I don’t make it very easy to love me. I can’t see Him…but I know that He is there.

My relationship with Samina is never complicated. And realistically, you would think that it should be. We live a distance from each other. We are busy with family and work and seldom have moments to keep in touch. And yet we do. Over time and distance, we are building something. A friendship that is one of the safest places in the world to me. And while I don’t often get to see her as much as I would like…I always know that she is there.

This past year has been horribly painful for me. I’ve struggled with the clarity of friendship – to know what is real and what is illusion. I’ve been lost in the thick and deep woods of how things are, and how I would like them to be. I imagined the months would have been kinder to my soul. That I might have been kinder to my soul. 

I’ve struggled through what felt like a hurricane of my own design. Anxiety. Worry. Doubt. Fear. I struggled to walk away from the lies and walk towards a better truth. I had struggled with the fears that I may never get to be who God wanted me to be…that I may never get to be who God intended me to be. That I would never be enough, do enough. I had struggled with the idea that my fear may forever hold me back. I had struggled to trust…to let go…to surrender. And in essence, what this really meant…was that I had struggled with God. And it had left me feeling very far from Him at times.

It had made me wonder if He forgot about me. If He stopped hearing my prayers for understanding. If He stopped feeling my pain. This, more than anything, had been enough to rip me apart.

Just as my grandmother drove the car down that country road all those years ago, dust rising in the air, leaving the view behind me nothing more than a cloud in the distance – not unlike many of the months that had recently passed by. When I got out of the car this time – concealed circles under my eyes, a physical ache and weariness in my body, the weight of seeming defeat on my shoulders, and all the pain in my heart – it wasn’t more than a few minutes before it happened…before the sting of all the hurts I’d buried deep, would press at the surface, and tears started pooling, streaming…before the desperation tried to break loose.

And there she was – Samina. My beautiful friend who – for what totals hours now – has let me cry and share my heart’s deepest fears, deepest longings. My beautiful friend who – while puddles form at my feet – helps hold the shattered pieces of my broken heart in the palm of her hands. My beautiful friend who – speaks words of love and truth that touch my soul. My beautiful friend who – met me right where I was, in the cloud of dust and hazy darkness, loves me in all my mess – came to my rescue.

When I think of all this…all that has transpired on a journey I never wanted to take, I am reminded of a fundamental truth…a truth that I nearly let pass me by in my river of sadness. I am reminded that while our own walk with God is just that…our own…our walk through this life was never meant to be taken alone. I am reminded that when Samina embraced the floodgates of my agony…it wasn’t just Samina. It was God radiating through Samina. It was our God whispering, “See…I’m here. I hear you. I ache for you. And you’re never alone.”

Because that’s what this life is really about. Crying together. Laughing together. Living together. Reaching out to the heavens…together.

When I think upon all this, I will forever be reminded of one of the most beautifully vulnerable moments of my life. A moment when the clouds parted and the light came pouring through. A moment when I called…and He answered.

Why I Won’t Light It Up Blue

On this day when everyone lights it up blue and has autism on their mind, I would just like to say that as a parent of a child with autism, all I want in this world is to understand my son and for others to try to as well.

Only a few short weeks ago, I could not say the word autism without a lump growing in my throat and my eyes welling with tears. In the early days after diagnosis, I couldn’t even so much as utter “Hi, my name is Laurel and I am calling regarding services for my son who was diagnosed with autism,” without totally breaking down while calling providers. Sometimes I couldn’t even make it past my own name and at times, had to hang up and call back later, only to cry again.

While I already knew for many months with everything that was in me, there was nothing that could ever truly prepare me to hear the words falling from the doctor’s lips. And fall they did…those words hitting the walls of my heart like concrete blocks, leaving jagged chunks of what I thought would be, could be, scattered along a path I had laid for my family. For my son.

Since that day, I’ve cried just about every day. Sometimes from sadness, sometimes anger, a lot of frustration, and most often, because of love. You see, amidst the fallen pieces – big dreams, hopes, the vivid picture I could not only see, but feel, like the strokes left behind from the artist’s brush, the texture was smooth in some places and rougher in others. Like the tiny particles remaining from that concrete rock that collided with my version of reality, they were now imbedded in the colors of my painting. As I traced the dream with my fingers I could feel smooth, then bumpy, rough…and I knew this would be forever.

This authentic and lucid dream I had was once again, not mine. It had never been mine to paint – the canvas was surely mine, but the colors and texture were not up to me to choose. I couldn’t ever have imagined the kaleidoscope that would follow…

I’d hoped for once, my maternal instinct had failed me. That the doctor would tell me I was over reacting, that every 3 year old spends incessant amounts of time organizing and perfecting, lining up trains, cars, magnets on a refrigerator. That leaving the house or transitioning activities is a challenge for any toddler. But she didn’t…

After a 3 hour observation and evaluation and an encyclopedias worth of paperwork, our entire lives, our complete history on display, I saw it in her eyes. I knew what she was about to deliver. She did it in the kindest and gentlest way, and I will forever be grateful for her compassion and empathy.

She provided us with some papers, said we were doing all the right things already, told us we could contact her at any time for any thing, gave me the warmest hug, and sent us on our way. We decided to keep it to ourselves for a while longer; we just weren’t ready to tell others.

I think some of that was fear talking. He is still little and maybe with enough therapy we could help him be as neurotypical as possible. “Neurotypical” is the politically correct word for “normal.” I just could not get past the “autism” word. I was stuck and scared.

My brain understood, but my heart hadn’t yet caught up. Even over a years worth of mother’s intuition did not prepare me. Why was this at once, so hard and yet so easy. There was overwhelming relief because – finally! Finally, we were not living this alone; it wasn’t manifested in some version of our own reality. It was real.

It’s been very real.

I’ve gotten him all the help I can find. Speech therapy, more occupational therapy, ABA therapy. I read and read and read, learning everything I possibly can about autism and sensory processing disorder. I joined online support groups where I’ve met some amazing mothers and no longer feel so alone and lost. There are friends old and new who became my angels, and they know who they are – without them, I would have crumbled. I don’t believe most people have even the slightest inkling what autism families go through – I didn’t. Add in additional diagnoses and medical challenges, and it is literally all-consuming in every sense. All day. Every day.

Initially, we were afraid to tell family and friends because we just didn’t want our little boy treated differently or analyzed. This was fear talking and I know now that those fears would have never happened. So we relied on each other for support, but as a scared mom I needed so much more, and found it in my online autism community and among amazing medical professionals I now so thankfully and lovingly call, friends.

You see, when you have a child with autism your biggest fear is the future. Not so much the near future but the distant future. Will he go to college or will he need to be cared for at home. Will he speak or will he be nonverbal forever. Will he ever have a real friend. Please Lord, will he ever call me “mom” or say “I love you” and on his own. Will he learn to point. Will he be potty trained. There’s so much more…

Just because a child does not speak, doesn’t mean they can’t communicate. Just because they don’t make eye contact, doesn’t mean they aren’t listening. If they don’t want to be touched, it doesn’t mean they are incapable of love. If they need to spin, yell, hum – it’s because it feels good, it serves a need – and it’s okay.

Autism is a spectrum disorder. A person with autism can be low on the spectrum (high functioning) meaning they can communicate and have some challenges but with time can usually manage them and live a normal life. Being high on the spectrum (low functioning) is well, the opposite usually. They are usually nonverbal individuals who could possibly need care for the rest of their lives.

It’s hard to define the autism spectrum. As the saying goes, when you meet one person with autism you meet ONE person with autism. They are all different and all extraordinary – ALL of them. They all have different challenges and strengths. Not one person with autism is the same. Please remember that. Everyone – typical or not – is their own unique masterpiece, crafted by His hand.

If I could put Luke on a pedestal, I would. He brings joy to every person he touches. He is just the most beautiful gift God has ever given me and I am so proud to be his mother. I shed many, many tears of joy because of him. My life is richer, relationships more transparent. As if all we had already been through didn’t cause me to recognize life’s value, any remaining scales have fallen from my eyes.

My canvas I thought, was already perfect. What I didn’t see was the full spectrum of colors and how the mixing, the texture, the unevenness, would be the very beauty defining our lives together. Paint poured out like tears flowing, the canvas takes new life.

The white light of soul, prism refracts. A spectrum – a beautiful kaleidoscope of vibrant color – is born. To me, Luke, and every person with autism or a “disability”, is the essence of purest white light refracted. Where life is not distorted, but clarified and transformed. It is innocence and purity, intrinsic honesty and beauty. But to see it, you must surrender your canvas to the Artist’s brush. You must trust. You must have faith.

April is Autism awareness month but for our family, it’s every day. Every day is a chance to educate others because we live in a time where it is estimated that 1 out of 68 children in this country are diagnosed with Autism and the numbers are as high as 1 in 34 in some parts of the country. I think most people know a child or person with autism. If you don’t, the day you do, smile and feel blessed, because you have met the very essence of spirit walking this earth.

I will not light it up blue because to me, autism is a beautiful kaleidoscope of constantly changing and overlapping colors.

Learn what autism really is and how you can involve children and adults with autism in your every day lives. Teach your children about autism. They will be encountering many peers on the spectrum, all different, but all extraordinary. Teach them all this, so they can become adults that will be tolerant of the changing world around them.

Okay Together

“You’re my best friend, Mommy.”

Yes, Baby.

There’s so much emotion attached to his statement. If I were the mother of a typical 3 year old, I wonder if I’d feel differently about his words. The fact is, I am his best friend (his mother, his OT, PT, speech therapist, his nurse, his advocate) and forever his biggest fan.

But as much as this melts my heart to know my sweet boy sees me this way, it also stings. It stings because I know it’s true. He doesn’t have friends in the traditional sense and I can’t help but wonder if he ever will.

I know what you’re thinking – he’s THREE! Stop overthinking!

We are early in our journey and there’s so much progress to be made. Yet still…my heart cannot help but ache and long for him to know true acceptance from someone other than his mother. I pray this every day as I drop him at preschool…

“Please, Lord. Give him a friend. Give him comfort and strength. Watch over him.”

There is so much we don’t know – can’t know – until it all unfolds. That’s hard for me. Really hard. I want to know if he’ll ever be able to comfortably associate with peers. I want to know if he will ever initiate instead of always needing an adult to prompt.

Some of the fiercest battles we fight as special needs parents are the ones inside our own hearts. We battle between fact and what we hope and pray will be. We do our best to stay strong and positive and sometimes…sometimes it just becomes too much. In spite of our best efforts, we crumble. Under all the pressures and demands, necessary and self-imposed, we succumb to the battle, knees falling to the rocky ground, and we plead with all that is in us to just make it all okay.

“Please, Lord, let it all, always be okay.”

And when we finally pick ourselves up, brushing off the fear, anxiety, and yes, sometimes anger, we see that our knees bear the scars of having fallen countless times before and yet still, we rise. We rise to do it all again and again because these precious souls have been entrusted to our care. And for as many times as we fall and hurt, they hurt just as much and more – and still, THEY rise.

Our babies fight no matter what. They don’t give up, they don’t complain, they march onward – and so must we.

I would battle thousands of lifetimes to be the mother of the son I have right now. He was meant to be mine, of this I am certain. Our souls have been, and always will be, eternally intertwined.

So yes, Baby. I am your best friend. Today, tomorrow, through every sting and every scar. Together, it will be okay. Together we are okay.

Now Autism 

I need your help in changing the way the world sees anyone who is different. The words that are to follow are important, and stringing together the appropriate letters to convey what is in my soul right now, feels just about impossible. Writing from my heart can be painful, but it’s 100% real, and real is what I always strive to be.
A few days before Christmas 2016, we went for a second opinion and more information regarding Luke’s cortical dysplasia/cerebral palsy. Our previous neurologist transferred out of state and we had made this new appointment with a very reputable doctor last Winter, waiting a year to see her. Going into the appointment I wasn’t worried. I already knew Luke’s diagnoses and challenges but I wanted a clearer picture, a better understanding, and to discuss some concerns.

So tonight, I want to share with you, and the world, that I have a son, his name is Luke. He just turned 3 and he is so perfect and so beautiful that even now, I still can’t believe he really belongs to me. He makes me believe in God and in miracles. He lights up my entire world…and he has autism.
And although this isn’t shocking to me – I have known in my heart for quite some time – I still have moments of shock. I know in a few days the sting will wear off more fully but what won’t wear off, is the overwhelming sadness and fear for those in this world that are tormented because of their differences. This is where my heart has been sitting since last week. I can’t talk about it without tears. Even as I type this, I can barely see through them all.

I’m not sad for Luke, I’m not sad for me, for our family – Luke is amazing just the way he is. I’m sad for the people in this world who are so closed-minded that they will never see the beauty in someone with a disability. Until you spend some good quality time with Luke, you may think he is a typical toddler, and in many ways, he is. But he struggles – interacting with his peers is extremely upsetting to him – so he doesn’t do it. He has meltdowns. His left hand frustrates him, his left foot isn’t as stable and causes him to sometimes fall or appear very clumsy. Transitioning can be absolutely unnerving for him and he has difficulty expressing and communicating. He is impulsive and at any given time an object could be on a trajectory for your head (unintentionally). He sometimes needs to repeatedly spin in circles (I would barf) or throw himself into hard surfaces – maybe even you.

I could tell you more about Luke’s challenges and things he struggles with, more of his quirks, but instead, I want to tell you who he is.

Luke is capable of giving the best and most amazing hugs and kisses ever. He has a great sense of humor and can make a room full of people laugh. He absolutely loves adults and is extremely engaging and a total sweetheart; everyone who meets him, loves him. He sees beauty everywhere – and he makes sure you see it, too. He is polite, he is caring, and so very sensitive. He is the best and biggest helper. He ALWAYS knows where the sun and moon are at any given time. He has amazing hearing, and tells us when aircraft is approaching long before we can hear or see it. He loves music and has some pretty fancy footwork. He is very bright and super inquisitive to the point of driving me mad most days! He has an absolutely incredible memory. I could go on and on…These are Luke’s gifts. Nothing of which to be ashamed, or to hide, they are uniquely his.
Most simply put, Luke is love.

It’s not disability that robs us. What robs us, are our minds and the negative thoughts we house in them. Each of us is a vessel through which either love and positivity flow, or, negativity and sadness. We have the choice every day as to what type of conduit we will be to each other and to the world. And as long as I am on this earth, I will do my damdest to be sure Luke will only know love and acceptance.

As you’re reading this, you’re perhaps thinking that I have it all together – that I’m so positive – and you’d only be half right. I am positive. I worked for that and earned that many, many years ago in my childhood. It’s who I am, and I thank God, because I never would have made it through without that thought. But having it all together? No way.

This last year has been extremely stressful and challenging as I kept silent in my heart what I knew about Luke, until we received a diagnosis last week. We are challenged daily by his behaviors. I have searched and researched, for every possible activity and experience to give Luke, so as to help him – our nights and weekends have been consumed. I’ve spent so much time at his daycare to help him better interact, his classmates now call me “Mommy” and it’s totally possible that if you were to peek in the window, you’d see me holding someone else’s child, or wiping their nose, or reading them a book, or just plain handing out hugs and giving knuckles. But I don’t mind any of it.
While I haven’t had much time for myself lately, it’s okay, because my son only has one shot at being helped early. Now is the time for the big push. He has made some great strides in the last few weeks and we know it’s from supports my husband and I have sought and have been providing both ourselves and through therapists. Now he will have access to even more and for that, I am so relieved and thankful.

So no, I don’t have it all together and this is not the least bit easy. I have a lot to learn. It’s not as cut and dry as heart surgery (but thank God it’s not heart surgery, again!) I am exhausted most days, cannot sleep most nights, and am often times the primary parent caring for Luke when he is struggling. He and I have a very strong connection that is different from that of he and his Dad. Being able to calm Luke comes very naturally to me and while it’s not always foolproof, most often I can at least desecalate and stabilize, and bring him comfort.
If I can ask one thing, please, educate your children, educate yourself. Talk to your children about the beauty of a world filled with differences. Kids are perceptive; they know when a child looks differently, acts differently, or talks differently. And maybe one other thing – stay connected to the people in your life. If someone drifts away, there may be very good reason, but perhaps not one they are able to, or can share at the time; don’t assume, don’t judge. Your text, phone call, offer to go to lunch or grab a coffee, will speak volumes to them, and could very well be the thing that gets them through some pretty challenging moments.

Remember that this life isn’t about YOU. This life is about others. What joy can you bring to someone else. How might you ease their discomfort. The measure of a life well lived isn’t in the loud displays, accolades, and self-seeking recognition. It’s in the quiet moments when you choose to be a conduit of love and pure acceptance to someone else and no one else knows – it’s between giver and receiver. We can all strive for this, every day.