A Shiny Thing

“Her laughter was a shiny thing, like pewter flung high in the air.”

-Pat Conroy Beach Music

There are multiple ways to measure health. I can use medical indicators, strength, work capacity or my percentage of body fat. All these factors can paint a picture of my current state of wellness; however, I have discovered there is another indicator that is much less scientific in nature yet closely tied to my overall sense of well-being. Laughter is said to be the best medicine, but what if it is also a symptom? Can it be an indication of a thriving life, stemming from a core of health and wholeness?

I used to think emojis were stupid and swore to never use them, much like I swore off skinny jeans in order to stand in solidarity with squatting women everywhere. Then they created stretchy skinny jeans and I folded. But the emojis I found to be ridiculous. Why did I need faces to act out my feelings? Couldn’t I just say, “Winking at you” or “I’m laughing out loud” (not to be confused with “LOL”-- I will NEVER use that one). Soon, I realized that I really do laugh out loud so often that it is tiresome and cumbersome to constantly type, “I’m laughing so hard tears are rolling down my face.” There is a perfect emoji for that one. I have also decided that emoji is precisely the symbol I need to represent a healthy version of myself.

Photo by Amanda Iannella.

How often do I laugh until I cry? Last week, I actually counted. Sixteen times in one day I either used the emoji or literally laughed until tears pooled at the corner of my eyes. I shed a lot of tears that day. My adult self, while more open to about anything and everything, is also more open to joy and laughter. My younger self spent her days guarded and hyper-concerned with what other people thought about her. She was a prude. She rarely ever threw her head back in laughter. Perhaps she thought too much or was too incredibly busy trying to manage all the things in this life that were beyond her control. While she would probably not even recognize the woman I have become, she would most likely envy this freedom and all the happy tears I shed.

Play is essential to our health. I often promote the idea of people “having fun with their fitness.” As a CrossFit coach, I am known to introduce my classes with a game. There is something so beautiful about watching grown-ups forget about “adulting” for a moment and get lost in a game. They laugh like nobody is watching. Children always do this. They laugh out loud all day long. They get caught up and lost in the moment. Adults can’t be bothered; there is no time. However, I know that when I laugh more, my health thrives because my mental and emotional health are just as vital as my physical health. Stress can damage my well-being as much or more than poor nutrition and lack of exercise or sleep. I need to find light and laughter in order to grow and feel alive.

A coworker recently posted that he missed our laughter. For ten months out of every year our roaring laughter echoes through the hallways of our campus. I work with amazing people who always promote spilling our joy onto everyone around us. We share our work and life together and laugh out loud a lot. I tend to avoid the teacher’s lounge, known to be a breeding ground for negativity and complaints, and migrate towards the spaces where humans find the lighter side of things and let their joy bubble out now and then. I am not sure everyone appreciates the way my co-workers and I live out loud, but it was nice to hear that this coworker, deep in the trenches of summer teaching, missed hearing our boisterous cackling.

When I started teaching almost sixteen years ago (gasp!), I made a vow to myself. If I got to a point where I could no longer laugh in the classroom, I would get out of the business. Fortunately, I am still laughing and have found other hobbies and occupations where I can add even more laughter to my life. My younger self did not have the lines on her face, carved from both happy and sad tears through the years, but her health was already under attack and teetering under the weight of stress and adulthood. Unbecoming involves releasing control and cracking open to let my joy spill out into the world. I must actively seek and create laughter in my home, workspace, and relationships. Laughing out loud has become the soundtrack of a healthier, happier life. May my laughter be a “shiny thing” my kids remember and seek to emulate.

Here are some other ways I find laughter:

• My husband and I make videos and take hilarious pictures, which we force on our best friends. They have come to expect ridiculous tableaus of our humor. We are still not sure if they find us funny, but we sure do crack ourselves up.  
• The kids and I frequently have impromptu dance parties. I dare you to let your guard down and really dance like no one is watching without laughing. I think it will be impossible. Your body will not be able to contain the bliss; it will bubble over in laughter.
• Please always laugh at yourself. I give myself so much material. I am like my own private stand up comedian. Part of living your life in a big way involves making a fool of yourself now and then. I refuse to let others reap all the laughter and benefit of my slip-ups.
• Spend time with kids. Laughter will happen. There is nothing sweeter to my ears than the sounds of my children belly laughing. It is deep-down, rib scraping laughter. It is meant to be shared.
• Surround yourself with people who get it. It’s difficult to laugh if you are constantly around grumpy people. Find those around you who are seeking the light in every situation. Borrow their laughter when you can’t find your own.  

All the Feels

Control is a figment of our imagination. Seeking it only makes us more anxious. It certainly isn’t required for good child rearing. And to the extent that we do manage to solve all our children’s problems -- or keep those problems from ever even popping up -- we are doing them a disservice. Not a fatal one that will stunt our children forever. But still, we are steering them away from the real source of confidence and independence, which comes from navigating the world and its surprises. Especially the unpleasant ones.

Lenore Skenazy Free Range Kids

He was my little old soul, extremely verbal, and in many ways, wise beyond the four little chubby fingers he held up when asked his age. He loved going with me on movie dates to the big theater. Up until that point, we had only seen animated movies, but that day we were seeing “The Velveteen Rabbit.” It looked like real life with human actors. Halfway into the movie he tugged on my arm. He was quietly sobbing and crawled up into my lap. As his giant tears soaked my sweatshirt, my mind was flooded with profanities. What was I thinking? The mom dies! Please don’t take the rabbit! He will never recover from this! Why did I bring him to this soul-crushing movie?

Photo by Amanda Iannella.

Since that day, I have given birth to another child and raised her for eight years. If I took her to the same film, she would also tug on my arm halfway through, but she would be bored and probably just want a snack. My children are two completely different, unique creatures. Some days it hardly even seems like the same job parenting each of them. My first born’s sensitivity requires me to be acutely aware of the emotional climate of our surroundings. He feels everything in a big, big way. It is beautiful to behold and makes for some of my proudest moments as a mother, like the day he rolled down his window at a red light and screamed at some birds who were “bullying” a smaller bird and trying to rob a piece of bread. “They were bullying him, Mom! Don’t be a bystander.” Equal to the joy he brings me, his fragile, open spirit is terrifying to parent.

We saw “The BFG” last week. I always ask the kids what they believe to be the moral or lesson of the story. My second child instantly shouted, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” My first born paused and thought for a moment. “No, I think it doesn’t matter how big or small you are; what matters is the size of your heart.” Aside from the obvious fact that he happens to be very small (the only ten year old whose mean mom still makes him ride in a booster seat) and has a very large heart that he wears on his sleeve for the whole world to knock right off and trample, he was thinking, feeling, and internalizing the message of the film. My best friend’s husband commented that my son’s poignant interpretation was thoughtful. I shouted, “But it is terrifying! He feels everything.This world will hurt him so much.” Accustomed to my dramatics, he looked at me and smiled. “Yeah, but you gotta let him feel it all.” Gulp.  

As much as I want to scoop up my son and throw him into a padded, isolated room, shielding him from all the ugly and hurt in this world, I have to “let him feel.” When a classmate betrays him or ridicules him, I have to watch his bottom lip quiver and help him make sense of the fact that someone would ever want to hurt him for no reason. When we watch nature documentaries and he leaves the room because he can’t stand to witness animals die as part of the cycle of life, I call him back in when the coast is clear. When he finishes a book series and cries at his final goodbye to a beloved cast of characters he knows he will never meet again, I help him research the next set of adventures he can dive into. And when he sees news of plane crashes, or shootings, or riots, or bombs lighting up a city full of boys and girls his age sleeping in their beds, I do my best to answer his questions and calm his worry.

Naturally, I am concerned what will happen when my husband and I are not there to help him work through “all the feelings.” I have always thought of my children as pieces of my heart walking around outside of my body -- it is almost weird. While trying to protect them, they make me feel so much. Perhaps the truth is that raising a sensitive child is making me more sensitive, which is also beautiful and terrifying. All too often it is easier to be numb and turn off “all the feels,” but that is no longer an option for me.

A friend recently said, “As they get older, the problems just get bigger.” She was referencing the idea that today’s temper tantrums at a restaurant can become tomorrow’s DUI or unexpected pregnancy, so enjoy the “little problems” while you can. This insight might be a bit too “doom’s day” for my liking, but I get it. I know that one day I will long for the days my child’s biggest heartbreak was over a movie. His life will have all the ups and downs of reality. He will feel some really low lows, but I have to remind myself that he will also feel plenty of high highs. He will love in a big way. He will help people in a big way. He will open up his heart to someone, and maybe they will trample it, but as my friend said, I have to “let him feel it all.” My sensitive child will suffer more, but he will also love more. He will have to learn to strike a balance - seeing beyond potential hurt to potential reward.

My small boy with a big heart.

As his mom, I will crumble each time he hurts and feel it in my very bones. I will wipe away tears and cheer him on to the next life lesson and experience. As he feels it all, I will carry the ebb and flow of his emotions pumping through my veins. I will continually remind myself to relinquish control of the things I cannot change and know that he will be just fine. He will be more than fine and find plenty to feel, whether he is surrounded by family, friends, classmates or teammates. Along the way, I will gather wisdom from my children and learn to see the world through their eyes, taking in all the pain and beauty from a new, unique perspective. I, too, will “feel it all.”

Awful Jealous Person

You know what I do when I feel jealous? I tell myself not to feel jealous. I shut down the Why not me? voice and replace it with the one that says Don’t be silly instead. It really is that easy. You actually do stop being an awful jealous person by stopping being an awful jealous person. When you feel like crap because someone has gotten something you want, you force yourself to remember how very much you have been given.

 -Cheryl Strayed Brave Enough

I would like to say that as a fully grown adult woman I do not get jealous, but I can’t. The truth is what manifests itself as teenage mean girl at 15 just morphs into keeping up with the Joneses at 37. My blog is called Unbecoming because I am exploring the idea of shedding everything that is not me in order to be my truest self. This process, unfortunately, involves recognizing numerous traits I do not like in myself and trying to redirect these behaviors. Every time I allow envious thoughts to seep into my brain, I disengage my ability to see life with a grateful heart. This attitude of gratitude is what I am constantly striving for and trying to teach my children.

When does this struggle become real for me? There are plenty of things that do NOT prompt me towards jealous thoughts.

• Trips to Disneyworld. I do not need or want “the happiest place on Earth” in my life. I will even broaden this category to include all amusement or water parks. No thank you.
• Babies. I love babies and enjoyed my two, but I’m good. Been there, done that. I love tiny fingers and tiny toes, but I see sleepless nights and dirty diapers.
• Late Nights Out. I can proudly own the fact that I am more of a Netflix and pajamas person at this point in my life. I love to sleep.
• Crafts and Pinterest. This one is pretty obvious.
• Well-groomed Family Pictures. It just isn’t happening. And I wouldn’t want to remember us any other way. We are my beautiful mess, and I own it. Messy hair don’t care.
• Races. I used to be a runner and reaped so much joy and satisfaction from running a race, but at this point, I find running to be torturous. No bibs, medals or chafing sticks in my near future.

But then there are areas where I do have to check myself and “shut down the Why not me voice.”

• Beautiful Lifting. When I see a woman who can make olympic lifting look effortless and the barbell just floats, I find my mind going to that dark, whiny place. Why can’t I do that?
• Grandmothers Playing with their Grandkids. Oh, this one sends me straight to that bad place in a handbasket. My kids have lost not one but both grandmothers.
• Anything and Everything Colorado. I miss Colorado as if it were a piece of my soul. I miss the lifestyle and the views that left me walking around in awe every single time I stepped outside.
• Adventures in the Great Outdoors. Whenever I am staring at a beautiful view or summit from behind a computer screen, my heart sheds a few tears. I want to be there in my happy place.
• The Italian Coast. I have had numerous friends travel to the Amalfi Coast, and their pictures make me wonder why we don’t all drop what we are doing and go there right this second.

Sadly, this list could keep going, proof of how much work I still need to do.

Each time these things come up, I have to check myself. The conversation in my head goes something like this:

What is wrong with you? Do you think someone isn’t looking at your life with your ten month career, healthy children, happy marriage and cozy existence thinking your grass isn’t a little greener? Get a grip and be thankful for what you have. You are acting just like the kids. Be happy for other people, you ungrateful woman.

Developing kind self-talk is also on my to-do list, but you get the point. Internally, I slap myself upside the face each time I sense the envy creeping in on me. I remind myself that while I cannot lift as much as some women, and my mom is lost to Alzheimer’s, and I don’t live in Colorado anymore, and I don’t spend every moment hitting the trails or basking in the sun on an Italian coastline, I have a big, beautiful life FULL of so much love and laughter. I am the luckiest lady I know. In that brief second of pause to redirect my thoughts, I become instantly humbled by the fact that I had the opportunity to discover and fall in love with the barbell in my thirties, and I had an incredible mother who raised me into adulthood and knew both my children, and I had the opportunity to seek adventure and move my family to Colorado, and I do spend most of our family’s free time exploring nature, and maybe I will feel that Italian sunshine some day.

I cannot embrace an idea of making each day count or instill that value in my children if I am too busy longing for what I might not have. I am ashamed to say there was a time when I lamented the fact that we never take big, week-long family vacations over the summer. I love to travel and live for a good family adventure. Owning a family business prevents us from taking off whenever we want. It is a bit more difficult to be spontaneous, so our family takes mini-getaways. We escape for a day or two or a long weekend numerous times throughout the year. This is a great setup for my little clan. We get to take more adventures in smaller doses while diversifying our destinations and activities. We make each day count. It is a win win. Our entire summer can be considered a staycation, and we do take a full week off at Christmas. Can you imagine there was a time that I pouted about this arrangement? I had the audacity to envy people with week long family vacations? THAT is an awful jealous person.

I have fresh food to eat, a comfortable bed to sleep in every night, a career that I love. I have my health, and I can’t remember the last day I did not genuinely laugh out loud over something. My children, while not the best at posing for family pictures, are incredible little people who teach me so much. My home is not in Colorado anymore, but it is exactly where I need to be, surrounded by amazing, kind, and smart human beings. Some nerve I had complaining about that setup! But I am learning to step back and reframe with gratitude. As Strayed simply states, “It really is that easy....stop being an awful jealous person.” Just stop.

When I shift my thoughts to gratitude, I can feel lighter, free from bitterness and envy, and experience true happiness at seeing others live their life in a big way. I can sincerely enjoy the view of the green grass on their side while savoring every moment in the lush green goodness right here.

Our good friends were vacationing in Colorado this week. I got lots of practice NOT being an awful jealous person.

Six Years of New Normal

It has been six years since we got the call. My in-laws were out in Colorado on vacation visiting us. They liked to stay with us a few days, do some traveling on their own to see the surrounding area, and then return to end their trip with us. There is just so much to see and do out there. They left around 9 am to head down to New Mexico. I was at a splash park with the kids. Brent was home working. The call came mid-morning. It was the hospital; Brent’s dad had been in a car accident. He was okay and gave them Brent’s number, but we needed to come to the hospital immediately.

I met them in the ER as soon as I could drop the kids with a neighbor. I was standing in the room, surrounded by shuffling doctors and quick-handed nurses working to salvage my father-in-law’s foot, when the procession solemnly walked through the door. They were doctors in scrubs with face masks around their necks, shoulders sagging with the weight of human life, hands trembling from unexpected, uncharted surgery. The last man in line was wearing a suit and carrying a Bible. It was the most telling sign. He was the chaplain sent to bring comfort and spiritual support. My knees gave out.

The first doctor in line leaned over my father-in-law and delivered the blow. “We did everything we could. We were not able to save your wife.” There were shouts, cries, moans, a cacophony of sharp pain and anguish. The room was spinning. There were nurses grabbing us and telling us to sit down. I saw it in Brent’s eyes. He would never be the same.

Trauma and tragedy change people. When we are cracked open and broken down to our most elemental parts of human heart and soul, we must eventually begin the process of clearing out the wreckage and rebuilding a new life, a new way of seeing. There is no denying that it changed us. Gone were the days of, “That would never happen to me.” We were instantly aware of a world of misfortune out there that could happen to us and our family. Cancer, sickness, disease, tragedy, violence, accidents - they all became real possibilities. We had no choice but to carve out a world in that new harsh reality. In the absence of invincibility and security, we began construction of a post-trauma life.

We moved our family across the country back to North Carolina. We returned to Brent’s childhood home with his dad to help the family take care of him as he recovered and started piecing together a world without his wife of almost 30 years. Soon we un-settled in Charlotte, halfway between my parents and his family.  A new family identity was not immediate. There was so much baggage to clear out: grief, anger, pity, loneliness. There were a million questions without answers.

After a few months, we were able to tentatively exit survival mode. We had a house, the kids had a school, and on paper we were now official NC residents. In our hearts we were nomads, desperately grasping for a new foundation to put down roots. Like tumbleweed blowing across a desert landscape, I was lost, never knowing when a gust could come and sweep me away or take my family. If there is a filter for fear and uncertainty, it would taint every picture from that era of my life.

Rumi captures the process: “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” We clung to each other and discovered that below the wreckage and devastation, there was a clean slate for rebuilding. The human instinct to create a life for our kids beyond the clouded grief and anger forced us to break down the land, and painstakingly, roots did take hold. The blueprints of our new life were appearing. Our new normal was coming into focus much like an image slowly emerges from a polaroid.

Now it has been six years of our new normal. Six years of new construction. CrossFit Jane’s slogan “Building Better Versions of Ourselves” reflects our process of actively working towards a new life and self. But our healing has not happened in isolation. An army of people stood by our side and helped us create beauty from the ashes of our loss. These people have become our medicine, numbing the pain, provoking laughter, stimulating growth and reflection. Many of these people now walk around wearing Jane’s name on a t-shirt or on the back of their cars. They have become part of the fabric of our lives, contributors to our family’s narrative.  

One of these people, a close family friend and CFJ athlete, recently lost her dad. She sent me a nugget of wisdom in this text: “I realize when we lose one source of love in our lives, there are others that come swooping in to fill that void.” To say that we no longer have a void would be untrue, but it is much harder to focus on that void when our life is full of so many shining people who want to join in our labor: renovating, remodeling, stripping and refinishing this life of ours.

On July 12, 2016, it will be exactly six years since the call. As we have done the past two years, our CrossFit community will join us for “Jane,”  a workout Brent wrote in her honor. We will push our bodies and “suffer” momentarily to honor her life and all the love and relationships grown and thriving in her absence. With our community beside us, we will acknowledge the void while basking in the Light and love.

Jane used to ask when I would write something she would want to read. The answer is now, Jane. We are all writing this beautiful, messy life story as we go. You would love it. You have a starring role.