A generation ends.

Three years ago, I had lunch with all of my grandparents. Today, I am grieving the loss of my last living grandparent, my Grandma Dorothy.

Grandma was, in a word, lovely. She was generally soft-spoken, but every word she said was witty, sassy, wise, or maybe even a little bit naughty ;) Here are a few memories and things I loved about my Grandma Dorothy:

She was playful. Growing up, Grandma always made time and space to play with Ian and me. We spent a lot of time together playing games with Grandma Dorothy and Grandpa Paul around their big dining room table. She loved coloring and would bring unique and intricate coloring books for us to color together. She introduced me to paper dolls as a young girl as well; I was never good at cutting them out, but Grandma was meticulous and patient. She'd cut out the clothes and accessories, and I would dress the dolls and tell her stories about them. A child at heart, Grandma also bought herself the Playmobil Victorian Mansion dollhouse and every accessory made for it in the mid-1990s. Rearranging the dollhouse and playing together was always a highlight for me, for years.

Grandma was progressive. As a kid, we didn't talk about politics in my house much, but I always knew exactly what Grandma believed. She was Paul Wellstone's biggest fan; she kept a massive Wellstone yard sign in her house for years even after he passed away. She believed in service and helping others; as her hero Paul Wellstone would say, "We all do better when we all do better." As I grew older and more politically aware, I enjoyed having conversations with her about her own beliefs, and was proud that she was such a progressive, social justice-oriented human and influence in my life.

Grandma was festive. She would go all out for every holiday, following a theme for every aspect of holiday gatherings from napkins and table decorations to using cookie cutters to shape nearly every food item into something holiday-related. I'll never forget her 4th of July parties. She would get us all the annual Old Navy 4th of July tees (IYKYK) and we'd have an all-American meal featuring star-shaped watermelon, star-shaped cheese slices for our burgers, and star-shaped cookies for dessert.

Grandma was creative. She played the piano and trumpet, and picked up the flute in her 60s; I used to give her flute lessons when I was in middle school!! I remember being a very little girl, probably around 4-5 years old, sitting with her at her grand piano, learning to play songs together. Grandma also took up cake decorating later in her life and would make the most gorgeous, intricate cakes. When Ian and I were in high school theater, she would come to school and sketch the set for our shows so that she could create a cake for our cast parties that matched the set. My favorite was the 50's diner she made for our production of "Bus Stop" that included checkerboard layers of cake. She also sewed, a LOT. She worked for a fabric store for a while and had boxes upon boxes of fabrics. When I was a little girl, Grandma would often sew me beautiful, frilly dresses with coordinating pinafores and bloomers. When I was about 3 years old, she gifted me a life-size doll and made matching outfits for both me and my new doll.

Grandma was proud of her heritage. She honored her Scandinavian mother in her love of making lefse, including starting a huge lefse bake at our family's church with a few of her friends, a tradition that has continued on for decades. We spent countless hours around the holidays making - and eating - lefse together as well. Grandma and Grandpa Paul both had Scottish heritage on their fathers' sides as well, and took Ian and me to the Scottish Fair every year. They taught us about our family tartans, introduced us to Scottish dance and Highland games, and made us shortbread and Scotch eggs.

Grandma passed away peacefully on Monday morning. I am so grateful for all of these years we got to share together. Grandma's playfulness will remind me that it is okay for grownups to tend to their inner child and, well, PLAY. Grandma's progressive spirit will inspire me to continue engaging politically, even if is not easy. Grandma's joy around celebrations will give me energy to celebrate even the small things, and to create positive memories for the little ones I love in my life. Grandma's creativity and lifelong "hobbying" will inspire me to keep engaging in my own creative hobbies and to keep trying new activities. Grandma's pride in her heritage will keep me grounded in learning the history of my own ancestors, however uncomfortable or fascinating that history may be, and to reconnect me with my own ethnic background.

Until we meet again, Grandma Dorothy. 💜

I Am From

I am from board games

From Value Village and Welch’s Strawberry Soda and Planter’s Cheese Balls

I am from the pages of Good Housekeeping:

Pristine, company-ready, warm from the fire

I am from heart-shaped rocks, gathered from the shores of Lake Superior

I’m from matching outfits and anxiety

From Wally and Sigrid

I’m from the lefties and diabetics and performers and generations of dog-lovers

From “Sit in your chair!” and “It’s someone else’s turn to talk”

I’m from Lutherans, the McConnell family singers

I’m from suburban Minneapolis and the land of tartans,

Potato dumplings, lefse, and plenty of Christmas cookies

From the garbage can full of empty liquor bottles and beer cans,

The gender stereotype-crushing grandmother,

The aunt who kicked cancer’s ass, the grandfather with nine lives

The brains riddled with Alzheimer’s disease, addiction, and mental illness

Organized impeccably in digital storage are photos of family members present and past;

each photo complete with stories and memories of tenacious survivors.

This is where I’m from.

I wrote this poem in the spring of 2018, modeled after George Ella Lyon’s poem. I recently found it, and wanted to share it here.

December Is the Darkest Month

Content warning: Suicide

December is the darkest month. The sun hides for 15 hours of the day.

December is the darkest month. Even when the sun tries to peek out, December is cloudy; the clouds shadow the rays.

December is the darkest month. My brain is in the darkest space in December. I feel dim in December.

Four years ago today, I went to the hospital for my mental health for the first time. Two Decembers later, I went to the hospital again for my mental health. Last December, I was experiencing pervasive suicidal thoughts so deep that I was in physical pain and was barely holding on.

It’s December again.

I recently began doing intensive trauma therapy using EMDR. EMDR is grueling. Hard. Exhausting. Fascinating. Freeing.

During EMDR, I’m remembering painful traumatic experiences and working to reprocess them in my brain. These are some of the darkest experiences I can remember. Things are resurfacing. Things are being uncovered. I’m making connections and identifying patterns. I feel the darkness of December once again. It’s really dark this December.

But this December? This December, I have hope. I know that by digging deep into this work and literally changing my brain, I will make it through. I will learn that I am not my trauma. I am not my past. I am not broken. I am strong. I am resilient. I know I can grow because I am currently growing. Those around me will see it. They will see me. This trauma work is already changing my life and I have only just begun.

December is the darkest month. Here I am. Sitting in the dark; feeling it wash over my body.

December is the darkest month. And…this time, I am holding a candle. This flickering light that I will protect and nurture until December ends and the sun begins to shine brightly once again.

A Letter to Future Brynn

Dear Brynn,

You know that Wizard of Oz book you had as a kid?  The one where Dorothy is at the bottom of the cover and the Emerald City is at the top of the cover, glowing in the distance, with the Yellow Brick Road winding in between the two?  You’ve often visualized your mental health journey as this.  You are Dorothy.  You are looking towards the beautiful Emerald City, with your sights only set on the city.  You’ve ignored the Yellow Brick Road and all of the scenery and adventure along the way.  You’ve seen the Emerald City as a destination to reach, without really paying attention to how you get there.

Brynn, your mental health isn’t like this.  There isn’t a utopian, sparkly world waiting for you.  There isn’t an ultimate destination.  There is only a road to follow, a road that you won’t reach the end to, and honestly, you don’t really want to reach the end.  You want to just walk on the road, one foot in front of the other.  You want to look at the trees and flowers around you.  You want to meet the munchkins and sing and dance with them.  You want to meet inspiring and encouraging people like Glinda the Good Witch, and quirky and imperfect but GOOD and loving people like the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Cowardly Lion.  You want to navigate through the creepy forest and the winged monkeys without running away from them or hiding from them.  You want to confront the Wicked Witch of the West and tell her she doesn’t scare you, and she won’t win in the end.

You live in the moment.  You are mindful about your feelings and thoughts.  You are curious about your behaviors and thoughts.  You are honest about your feelings and thoughts.  You are gentle with yourself because you know you deserve it.  Self-compassion is a driving force in your life.  You lead all interactions with compassion, kindness, and respect towards others and yourself.  You move your body every day because you love it.  You have healthy boundaries with your family, partner, friends, and yourself. You see your nephew and niece frequently to hang out with them and spend quality time with them because they are your biggest loves.  You don’t feel guilty when you volunteer, when you read, when you see your friends, when you craft, when you sing.  You have fallen in love with being present in your life, because no longer are you looking only towards the Emerald City, but you are walking on the Yellow Brick Road step by step.  If you need to slow down, to turn around, to take the left fork vs the right, if you want to run for a bit...all of that is okay, because you listen to your body and you are gentle with your brain.  You know how to cope with your feelings in healthy ways and you are grateful that the people in your life support you wholly.

You’re going to be okay, Brynn.  Be kind to yourself.  You really are enough.

So put on your ruby slippers and start walking.

Love,

Brynn

Perfectionism and Mental Illness

I’ve always been told I was smart, talented…gifted. I taught myself how to read when I was 3 years old. I participated in the gifted program through elementary school, won regional spelling bees and math competitions, and was 1-2 years ahead in math all throughout my school career. I picked up my friend’s flute after school one day and within an afternoon had played through the entire 5th grade band curriculum with ease and skill. My teachers often paired me up with students who struggled academically because it kept me engaged to help my peers with concepts they weren’t yet grasping. I skipped a level of Spanish in high school and picked up on the grammar and vocabulary almost as if I already knew the language. Even though I didn’t study for the ACT and gave up at the beginning of the science section, I scored a 29 (side note: one of my biggest regrets is not taking the ACT again…I would have gotten more scholarship money with a higher score and thus would be paying less in student loans now - gah!!!). I worked hard in college and graduated from Hamline University with highest honors, one of only a small handful of students to achieve this. I graduated from my master’s program with a 4.0 and earned top marks on my comprehensive exams.

I remember feeling, all throughout my childhood, that I should be proud of myself…but I felt that because I had set the bar high right from the start, I was just doing what was expected of me. I felt that if I didn’t achieve at the highest level or wasn’t the best at something, that I failed. I became a perfectionist very early on in my life as a result, and consequently, lived with high levels of anxiety.

When I was in 10th grade, I was taking the hardest classes possible, including my first college level classes in science and social studies. When I wasn’t participating in my many extracurriculars, I was studying. I would stay up until the wee hours of the morning, trying to make sure I knew everything about European History and chemistry. I slept 5-6 hours at night - and I’m someone who has always thrived off 8-10 hours of sleep. I was earning excellent grades, but emotionally I was falling apart. I was stressed constantly, I cried all the time, I coped very poorly if I didn’t get an A on a test or paper because anything less than an A meant failure.

My parents and I had a talk after the first quarter of the school year. I can’t remember if they initiated the conversation or if I did, but we decided it was best for my mental health if I dropped one of my college level classes. We talked with my teacher about it, who was disappointed because I had one of the top grades in the class, but when we explained how it was affecting my mental health, she understood. I was able to drop the class without penalty and wound up taking the “regular” level of social studies for my 11th grade year, which I also did for science. I had the talent and capability of excelling, but my mental health was suffering so much that it wasn’t worth it. I stayed in the top levels of math and English, my two favorite subjects, throughout high school. The balance was healthy for me, and I wound up taking a college-level social studies class again during my senior year and earning the top score on the AP test to received college credit.

However, I felt very ashamed at times. I had gone through school with the same group of kids who also took all the most challenging and rigorous classes. When I dropped down a level in social studies and science, I maintained my mental health but I lost friends. It was lonely - there was a level of cliqueiness amongst that group and to be not fully immersed in it…I just felt rejected. I felt insecure because I knew I was capable of taking all of the hard classes but I had such a perfectionist mindset at the time that it would have been unhealthy…but I was so ashamed of my mental health struggles that I couldn’t explain this to my friends. I withdrew (mostly out of a combination of bitterness and shame) and found comfort in other groups of students. Up until this time, my peer group had revolved around students I spent most of my time with, students in the highest levels of classes. Now, I didn’t have that identity anymore and I wasn’t a part of the group anymore. I was very hard on myself for that. I felt like maybe I had gotten stupid when everyone else was getting smarter, and that made me “less than.”

It’s uncomfortable thinking about this and writing it, to be honest. However, as I have grown older and wiser, I have been able to process all of this better. I do not consider myself to be a perfectionist anymore; and thank goodness, as perfectionism is not something to be proud of. It quite literally could have ruined my life had I not learned to let go. Although I’m not a student anymore and don’t get graded on things, I still struggle with the idea of failure: in my former marriage, in my living situation, in my family, in my work. I still struggle with the pressure of being a (recovering) perfectionist.

Taking a leave of absence from work last school year because of my mental illness left me with huge levels of shame. Here I was, presenting “perfectly” as always and as expected, and I was falling apart. I felt like if I had to show up to work, to family gatherings, to a party, to life in general, I was going to implode. I took drastic measures to improve my mental health, but it came at a huge expense: it damaged formerly strong relationships with colleagues, it led to a pay cut, it made me feel like I let people down all around me because I couldn’t engage with others like I wanted to because I physically and emotionally couldn’t. All last school year, I felt like a massive failure…which was made worse because I was primarily focused on improving my mental health so that I didn’t have those feelings anymore!

I’ll touch more on this in another blog post…but I’m doing well now. I’ve learned so much about myself, how to be confident, how to feel good about myself outside of my achievements and “gifts,” how to identify and nurture positive relationships and shamelessly let go of toxic or unhealthy ones, and how to handle my mental illnesses. I’m trying to be proud of myself for who I am now, and not be hard on myself for who I am not. I’m not sure if the perfectionist voice will ever fully leave me, but I’m learning to quiet her so that she stops telling me that my worth is contingent on my achievements and accomplishments.

To all of my fellow perfectionists - those recovering or those in the throes of it currently - I hope that you know that you are enough just as you are. Stop letting that inner voice dictate whether you get to be happy or not. Do what makes you feel joy and fulfillment, even if you’re not the best. Being the best is not what life is about; let go of that false messaging your brain is telling you. Show up to life in whatever state you’re in…those who love you will love you regardless. Just show up.

How to Be Supportive

If you've read more than one of my blog posts before, you'll know that I am passionate about working to end the stigma against mental illness.  One of the things I've heard from people a lot is, "I care, but I just don't know what to say!"  Talking about mental illness can be hard and awkward, but it doesn't have to be.  I want to help people understand what things may or may not be helpful to say to someone who is experiencing mental illness.

Not Helpful

• "I'm sorry if your feelings are hurt." | Oof, this is the weakest apology ever.  It completely takes the blame away from the person who did or said something hurtful.  It makes me feel like I'm the guilty or wrong one for having feelings...which is something that so many of us with mental illness battle every day anyways.  We judge and over-analyze our feelings.  We are often chronic over-apologizers ourselves (and find ourselves apologizing for situations in which we are objectively the victims).  Please avoid this phrase...it is so damaging.
• "So many people have it worse than you." | Oh trust me, I'm aware of this.  Part of the reason I have trouble asking for help sometimes is because I know other people have their own shit they're dealing with.  Or I convince myself that my issues are small potatoes compared to people living without clean water, or immigrant parents being ripped apart from their young children, or refugees living in constant fear for their safety, or some of my students who struggle with their own mental illness but don't have supportive family or friends.  I get anxiety about the level of my anxiety, especially when compared with what others are experiencing.  I don't need to be reminded.  Plus, my feelings are real and valid, and hearing this phrase is a dismissal of my feelings.
• "Don't you think you're being a little selfish?" | It can be extremely challenging for people with mental illness to seek help, admit they're struggling, or put themselves first...especially for those of us who are high-functioning.  I know that I have downplayed my mental illness SO MUCH because I haven't always valued myself enough to take charge of my wellness.  So when I finally have decided to put myself first, the last thing I want to be told is that I'm being selfish.  I have taken some somewhat drastic (for me) measures to finally tackle some of my struggles and improve my mental health and the blatant or insinuated judgment I have experienced really adds to the shame I already feel about my mental illness.  A little grace goes a long way.
• "I totally get it - we all get depressed sometimes." | While it is true that many people go through periods of deep sadness or even depression following certain events (loss, trauma, unemployment, etc.), there is a distinct difference between those situational events and chronic, major depression.  I have experienced depression following the loss of a grandparent, but I also have experienced major depression that doesn't have a "reason" other than that's the way my brain works.  In those periods, it takes immense energy for me to get out of bed, shower, and join the world.  I question my existence.  I find little pleasure in anything.  I don't want to eat.  I feel numb, nothing.  This kind of depression is scary, lonely, completely different from situational depression/sadness.  If I'm in a period of depression, telling me you know exactly how I feel because you have been sad after losing a relative, or telling me to cheer up, or asking me to think of the good things in the world, or even telling me "You're strong, you'll get through this" (because sometimes I don't feel like that's true at all) are not helpful things.  What is helpful is just to sit with me, listen to me, let me know you love me, and don't try to fix it.

Helpful! :)

I want to be careful to not just share with y'all what not to say.  While that's helpful, I also believe that more people need to be educated on what kinds of comments and questions are appropriate and affirming when speaking to someone who is struggling with their mental health.  [Note: I understand that all people handle talking about their mental health differently, but these are some things that are fairly general and "safe" to say to or ask a person who lives with mental illness.]

• SIMPLY ASK THEM HOW THEY'RE DOING. | One of the most hurtful things that has happened to me throughout my mental health journey is when people with whom I have been close and who know that I've been struggling choose to not ever ask me how I'm doing.  I've heard from some people that they've chosen not to acknowledge it with me simply because they "didn't know what to say."  Honestly, it's not that hard to just say, "Hey, Brynn...I know you've been struggling but I care about you and your mental health.  How have you been lately?"  It might feel awkward for you to bring it up, but trust me, when people in my life have come right out and asked me, it means the world to me.  It makes me feel seen, valued, loved.  When you dance around addressing my mental health and pretend it's not a part of me, it makes me feel invisible, invalidated, and just all around shitty.
• Check in. | I know that when I am more anxious or depressed, I tend to isolate myself a little bit more than usual.  However, I still want and need to feel cared about.  I have amazing people in my life who have done a fantastic job of showing me how much they love me.  Easy and quick things you might want to consider doing to help support your friend who's experiencing mental illness include: sending a random text, sending a letter in the mail (this is one of my favorite things to receive and I have started to return the favor!), send a link to a funny video.  Don't expect anything in return; just know that by reaching out, you've made the spirit of your friend with mental illness smile a little more.
• Just spend time together. | Two of my very best friends in the world are my cousin Katie, and my nearly lifelong friend Jourdan.  I'm giving them a special shout-out here because they have been integral in my mental health recovery.  Katie and Jourdan both understand mental illness and have been the most patient, understanding, loving, and supportive friends I could have asked for.  They know that it is important to spend time together, but they also don't care if I wear leggings and a sweatshirt (and no bra, duh!) when we hang out; they simply just want to spend time with me because they care about me.  With each of these women through my mental health recovery, I have spent time eating snacks, laughing, watching movies, coloring, spilling my guts, listening, not saying a word, walking around the mall, browsing for treasures at the thrift store, treating ourselves to a fancy dinner for no reason other than we love ourselves/each other, etc.  I never have to worry about what state I'm in when we're together because they both accept me where I'm at and I always wind up feeling so much better after spending time together, no matter what we do or how long we spend together.
• Help other people understand. | Learning about mental illnesses and what life is like for those of us who struggle with our mental health is one of the best things you can do to support us.  When you learn about what depression is and what it can feel like, it helps take the pressure off of me from having to explain myself.  One of the things that makes me feel the most supported is when people in my life use what they've learned about mental illness to help spread the word to others.  This is what helps to break the stigma against mental illness!  When you share my blog posts or share articles you've read online about mental illness or listen to podcasts about mental illness and then talk about what you've learned with others, it makes me feel like you're a trusted, safe, supportive person who is committed to end the stigma against mental illness.  You're someone I want in my life.

I hope you've learned a little more about how to best support those in your life living with mental illness.  These are all things that have been helpful for me in my own mental health recovery!  I would love to hear your thoughts about any of these things!  Let's get the conversation going!

Hello, Strangers!

It's been a minute since I posted on here, but do not fret, I have not forgotten about you.  I just needed to take some time to live my life and get some changes in order.

I've written and re-written what my last several months have looked like so many times.  I don't want to get into too many details because I would like to stay positive and kind, and I am having a hard time doing that if I try to write this post.  I will say that I will be starting a new job in August and I am thoroughly relieved and excited to grow and thrive in a new environment.  I quite literally feel like a weight has been lifted from my heart since accepting this position and I look forward to taking the next steps forward in my healing and recovery.

I've been writing drafts of blog posts throughout the spring and I'm finally getting ready to post them, but I wanted to make sure I addressed my absence first!  I also am continuing to create art, which I'd love to share more of on my blog as well.  Please stick around, because I'll definitely be sharing more of my thoughts on mental illness and the results of my self-care (ART!).

Take care of yourselves, and I'll pop back in soon!

A Second Chance at Life

You know how sometimes people talk about those pivotal moments that change their lives forever?  I think I recently had one of those moments...

March 20.  I was driving to work.  It was raining gently and the roads were wet, but I felt safe.  I'd driven to Owatonna hundreds of times from the Twin Cities, and in much worse road conditions on more than one occasion as well.  Because I'm a cautious person, which translates to how I drive as well, I had left plenty of room between my solid Buick and the pick up truck in front of me.  I was listening to Code Switch, one of my new favorite podcasts.  I had just finished eating the most nutritious on-the-road breakfast: a cherry PopTart (once in a blue moon, I'll splurge - oops!).

Not quite halfway into my drive, I approached an overpass.  As soon as the truck in front of me hit the suddenly frozen overpass, the driver lost control of her truck and began swerving all over the highway, eventually hitting the median and coming to a stop.  I noticed this right away and began pumping my brakes...but traveling 70 MPH on the interstate and suddenly hitting a patch of ice, I was not slowing down or stopping at all.  I also lost control of my car and knew I was going to crash.  I saw and felt my car turning towards the median.  I thought to myself in a split second, "I am about to die.  I don't want to watch this."  I slammed my eyes shut, screamed, and then everything froze.

There was a deafening crunch followed by an equally deafening silence.  I opened my eyes and everything was blurry.  I could see smoke in my car, the deflated airbag in my lap, the shattered windshield.  I smelled burnt skin but couldn't figure out where on my body I was burned.  Everything on my body hurt but I felt numb.  I was terrified that I was seriously injured and I knew if I had hurt my neck or back I should just stay still.  I noticed my glasses were not on my face, nor were they anywhere within my (admittedly terrible) field of vision.  My hands were shaking; my body itself was quivering.  I saw my hot pink phone case down by my feet and slowly scooted it forward so I could gently lean down to grab it.  I called my mom and with a weak and panicked voice told her I had gotten in a car accident, I was about 40 minutes away, and I needed her to bring me a pair of glasses because mine had disappeared.  Next, I called my secretary at work to tell her I wouldn't be coming in.

I didn't know what else to do...so I snapped a couple of pictures of the inside of my car.

The entire windshield was shattered.  Rain was dripping inside my car from the holes in the glass.  My console was falling apart.  The side mirror on the passenger side had smashed into the window and created another hole there for cold air and rain to enter my car.  I looked next to me where my backpack and lunchbox had been sitting, and they were on the floor in front of the passenger's seat, covered in tiny bits of glass.  I noticed my sweater itself was sparkling with glass dust and picked a few bigger pieces of glass off my chest.  I reached up to my left collarbone, which I noticed was stinging...ah yes, the source of the burnt skin scent.  The airbag had hit my necklace and burned it to my skin.  I breathed as I took mental stock of my entire body and tried to locate the sources of my pain: my chest, my neck, my hips and abdomen, my shins (especially the left one) and the top of my left foot.

A young man in his 30s appeared in the hole of my passenger window.  "Are you okay?  Are you hurt?" he asked me.  "I think I'm okay, I'm just really scared!" I cried.  He opened the back door and looked at me.  "I see no blood.  I just called the police and they are coming to help you."  I replied, "Thank you!  I can't find my glasses!  I can't see!"  He searched around my backseat (I'm sorry, strange man, that it was so messy...) and reached underneath one of my blue IKEA bags.  "Are these your glasses?"  I was so relieved...it didn't register until later that my glasses had been flung from my face and landed underneath a bag in the backseat.

Shortly after, the police arrived, and I was quickly assessed and let out of my car.  The police officer - an extremely kind and gentle young man - took my license and insurance information, and escorted me to the ambulance to be evaluated further.  While inside, I was checked for signs of a concussion, neck or spinal injury, and sources of potential bleeding.  It was determined that I was lucky to not have hit my head or to have sustained any significant injuries that would have led to my transport to the hospital.  By the time I was let out of the ambulance and into the police car, my beloved car had already been taken away before I could see the damage.  The other driver of the pick up truck - a 17-year-old girl on the way to school - was fine and was able to leave the scene during that time as well.  I was taken to a nearby McDonald's where my parents were going to come pick me up.

I sat in a booth of that McDonald's silently weeping.  I was in pain everywhere.  I was terrified.  I couldn't believe I was alive and that I wasn't bleeding anywhere.  I texted a couple of my best friends to tell them what had happened.  One of them called me immediately and talked with me as I sat crying in McDonald's next to a table of geriatric couples enjoying their McCafe lattes and breakfast sandwiches.  In about 20 minutes, my parents showed up with a jacket, another pair of glasses, and gentle but comforting hugs.

I started bruising from the seatbelt and down my leg almost immediately and after being home for about an hour or so, I decided I needed to go to the hospital to be looked at.  I was also experiencing alarming neck weakness and pain in my chest, back, and leg.  I spent 8 hours in the ER, where I was given ice for my "achy parts" (no joke, the CNA said that to me as he gave me two ice packs...), had chest and leg X-rays, and an MRI of my neck (my first ever MRI - hated it).  I was told that I had no structural issues but to ice my deep bruises and significantly strained muscles for 24 hours and switch to heat afterwards.  I was also directed to set up physical therapy and/or chiropractic care for my neck, back, and leg.

A few days later, I went to gather the personal items out of my car with my mom.  Since I had only seen what the inside of my car looked like the day of the accident, I was absolutely shocked to see my car completely banged up.  It was completely sobering.  I knew I had had a brush with death but seeing how damaged my car was made me so grateful to be alive.

The outside of the mirror is still embedded in the window!

Extreme gratitude for my dear Debra, keeping me safe.

The doors on the passenger side would not open.

I believe this is from where my car swung around and hit the pick up truck.

The bruise on my left upper thigh/hip.

The entire front bumper was in pieces all over the interstate.

Miraculously, the front tire did not explode!

The bruise across my abdomen.

The past two weeks have been utterly surreal.  I have experienced deep pain from head to toe, but I hesitate to complain about it because the pain is better than the alternative.  My pain is largely from my seat belt...which saved my life.  I'll take the deep bruises and aches.  My neck weakness and pain is partially from my airbag...which saved my life.  I'll take the weakness and strain.

It's interesting, because for about a month before my accident, I had been really questioning the value of my life.  I had grown very tired of fighting my mental illness every day...tired of the way it has affected my daily life...tired of pretending to be fine when I still struggle on some days.  I had been thinking about how much I wished I could just stop...being...for a little while.

Now that I have had a traumatic, near-death experience, I am thinking about life so differently.  The family and friends who have reached out to support me, check in on me, to tell me how grateful they are that I'm alive...I see now that I matter to people in my life.  I am grateful to have a second chance at life.  I realize that I have way too much life ahead of me to wish it away.  I have a sense of peace deep inside that I haven't felt in a long, long time.  The physical pain will fade with time and physical therapy.  The trauma of the accident and my mental health will improve with time and cognitive therapy.  But my life is sacred and I am up for the fight against all my internal and external pain.

I matter.  I will fight.  I will live with a renewed sense of gratitude.  I will not shy away from this trauma, but continue to work through it and never let myself forget how lucky I am to have been spared.

Please See Me

I go to work and to my appointments showered, with make-up on, hair done, nails painted, and cute outfit on.  I smile, laugh, and make jokes.  I carry on conversations with people I encounter daily.  I skillfully assist my students with whatever struggles and questions they have and celebrate their victories with them.  I try to spend time with friends at least once a week.  I'm currently in a musical and have pushed myself to step outside my comfort zone and meet new people, my fellow cast mates.  I sing 2-3 Sundays a month at church where I'm helping lead worship in front of several hundred people each week confidently and with a smile on my face.  Outwardly, I've got it together and am doing great.

On the inside, I struggle.  I consistently have racing thoughts telling me I'm unworthy, a bad friend, untalented.  I have frequent headaches.  I'm tired most of the time regardless of how much sleep I get.  I require a lot of time alone in order to recharge.  I have a low tolerance for noise and chaos much of the time, meaning that when I'm out at a restaurant or somewhere else with a lot of energy and activity, I often need to leave within an hour or I am overly-stimulated and begin to feel physical symptoms of my anxiety.  I fixate on my symptoms and am very self-conscious of them; when they are intensified, all I can think about is trying hard to "look normal" (whatever that means...).  I occasionally cry in the car on the way home from work just to release the feelings I've successfully suppressed all day.  My physical environment can get cluttered easily because when I'm home, the last thing I want to do is anything productive (again, I need a lot of alone time engaging in various forms of self-care in order to function "in public").

This, my friends, is what high-functioning mental illness looks like.  Until I started talking about this, most people were shocked that I struggle as much as I do.  I get my tasks and assignments done at work, I socialize with friends, I am involved in my community, I take care of business.  In a lot of ways, I feel incredibly lucky that I am able to function as well as I can.

However, it can be very challenging at times.  Living with high-functioning mental illness means that most people don't understand how much I might be hurting or struggling on the inside.  While I might be able to maintain my daily activities, it doesn't mean it's easy.  I might "look normal" but I also might be trying to breathe through an impending anxiety attack or choke back tears.

Because I present as having it all together, I think people often assume I'm fine.  But nothing makes me feel more seen and cared for than when people check in on me.  Truly, it means so much.  It is really easy for someone with mental illness to feel invisible (because society doesn't like to talk about or address it...).  Thus, when you acknowledge someone's mental illness and take interest in their well-being, it shows us that we are valued and "worth it."  And when you struggle with your purpose in life, knowing that you're seen, heard, acknowledged, affirmed...it is invaluable.

Here's the thing: My whole life is not centered on my mental illness - I write about it here simply because writing is one of the ways I cope with it (and I'm still fighting to end the stigma).  Ask my family, my best friends, my students, my supervisors.  I laugh every day, I carry on conversations, I'm goofy, I reach out to my people to check in, I am engaged in my community, I don't let my mental illness interfere with my ability to get projects done at work, my students have no idea I understand so vividly what they talk about when they describe their depression and anxiety.  Sometimes I get the feeling that people don't want to talk with me because they are afraid that I'm going to be unable to talk about anything but my mental illness.  Oh no...I have so many other topics I like to talk about.  However, if you know I'm struggling and you choose to not acknowledge it on occasion (even if it's just a quick, "Hey, how are you doing these days?" or "I've been thinking of you..."), it hurts.  Deeply.  A small check in to make me feel visible, and then I promise we can talk about other stuff (unless, of course, you want to know where things are at with me, in which I'll answer whatever questions you have).

While I am not mental illness (I have it), I do want to be seen.  Please...see me.

Book: A Pelican of the Wilderness

Something interesting has come out of me being much more open about my mental illness.  People from all areas of my life are reaching out to thank me for sharing my story, to ask for support in their own struggles, to seek out resources, and to simply say they love me and are thinking about me.

My mom has been sharing my blog posts on her own Facebook page.  One of our friends from church (hi, Janet!) read one of my early blog posts, and in reading my story she was reminded of a friend of hers.  His name is Bob Griggs.  He's her neighbor, is a pastor, and is a survivor of depression.  Bob also wrote a book about his depression: A Pelican of the Wilderness: Depression, Psalms, Ministry, and Movies.  Janet gave me a copy of Bob's book recently...and I loved it so much I knew I wanted to write about it here.

Bob had been a practicing minister in the United Church of Christ for over 30 years, and was hospitalized with major depression.  The book documents his depression and recovery in an honest, raw, reflective, and humorous way that I connected to deeply.  Bob talks about learning how to find pleasure in the small things, choosing his path, setting limits in his life, and accepting his reality.  He also writes about the comfort he found in reading the Psalms and watching classic films as he recovered.

I'd like to share some of my favorite parts of the book and how they have resonated with me.  I hope you can find some value in these words, too!

• In the hospital, Bob's psychiatrist told him that one of the reasons he was in the hospital was because he was driving himself too hard, too fast, and wasn't taking the time he needed to recover.  Oh, how this spoke to my soul.  I found myself in the ER in the end of November because I couldn't take it anymore.  I didn't know what else to do; none of my standard coping strategies were working.  I could think of nothing except how numb I was and how much I wanted to just take a break from living for a bit.  I was working too hard at my job, putting unattainable high expectations on myself in all areas of my life, and beating myself up for not meeting such expectations.  The social worker I spoke to in the ER said the same thing to me: "You need to take a step back and focus on you." 
• Bob writes: "I needed people to help me rest, to help carry the burdens of my life, to point me in the right direction, and then to walk with me that way for a while" (p. 46).  Just like Bob needed to seek out help, so did (DO!) I.  As someone who tends to be pretty independent and always hated group projects in school, it's hard for me to rely on others to help me with anything.  But let me tell you, I couldn't make it if I didn't have the support of my family and close friends who have loved me through this journey of depression.
• Bob writes: "Remember that when you are under stress, it's natural to revert to old ways of coping" (p. 95).  This is one of the things I am going to need to remind myself of frequently.  My old ways of coping clearly weren't working for me anymore, and I am spending a lot of time learning what is effective.  I have pared back a lot of things in my life so that I can take the time I need to learn and heal, but when things start to be "back to normal," I am worried that I will slip back into old patterns.  Stress management and positive coping skills are the key!
• Bob writes: "Far from shaming me, my family has encouraged me to be honest about my depression.  Far from shaming me, they keep referring to my courage in facing my demons.  Far from shaming me, they have helped me to regain my self-respect" (p. 111).  Wow...did I write this?  I loved reading about how Bob's family supported him in his recovery, and it rang true for me.  My parents, my brother, and his wife (among other family members - chosen and biological alike) have been truly lifesavers.  While I have experienced some shaming (whether intentional or not) about my mental illness and how I'm choosing to address it and talk about it, I am deeply grateful that I have not felt one bit of shaming from my family.  They are my biggest cheerleaders and are absolutely the reason I continue to share my own story with you all.
• Bob talks a lot about how telling your story helps to end the stigma against mental illness, and how being open about our stories helps the people we encounter be more open with us in return.  Because Bob also works in the helping profession as a minister, I can't tell you how much this message has positively affected me.  Bob has been able to maintain a successful career as a minister and address his depression with his congregation and coworkers.  He has received outpourings of love and support from those people and it hasn't prevented him from being a caring, compassionate, competent professional.  I can't reiterate enough how important this point alone is for me to recognize and embrace.

At this point, you probably feel like you don't even need to read the book because I've shared so much of what I have loved about it, but I urge you to read it if you can.  Bob's story in the hospital is eye-opening and helps to paint a more realistic (and less stereotypical) picture of who it is that battles mental illness.  His description of how he has used Psalms in processing his mental illness and in facilitating his recovery is beautiful and moving.  His analysis of classic films and how they've helped him recover is often hilarious (Blazing Saddles, anyone?).  This book is easily one of the most important books I have read in a long time - and as an avid reader, that's saying something - and I can't wait to read it again and again as I continue my way through my healing process.

Janet, thank you so much for connecting me to Bob's writing.  Bob, your story inspires me and I am personally grateful for your gift of words and your honesty in what it's like to be a helper who also battles mental illness.  Thank you for giving me hope.

The Mask and The Sanctuary

I believe that most of us who live with mental illness wear a mask.  This mask helps us hide our mental illness from the people and physical spaces around us.  I have lived much of my public life behind a mask.

I wear a mask at work.  When I'm at work, I often appear to be doing well.  I'm happy, I smile at students and colleagues, I am able to get my work done, I have excellent conversations with my kids, I am on time to and prepared for meetings.  However, on the inside, I struggle with worrying whether I'm doing enough for my students.  I want to do my projects perfectly, although with 400 students on my caseload and an increasing number of assignments and duties being laid upon me (each of which I accept from my administrators with a smile on my face), it is impossible to do things perfectly.  "Good enough" has never been a part of my vocabulary; "perfect" has been my goal as far back as I can remember.  Rationally, I know this is not attainable or sustainable.  And I think that's the reason I have slowly been crumpling under the pressure of work.  I can't be the perfect school counselor, the perfect coordinator, the perfect problem-solver, the perfect e-mail answerer, the perfect listener...it's just impossible.  But I am working hard to do the best I can under the circumstances, and I am reassured by those that matter that my "good enough" is still exceptional.

I wear a mask at family gatherings.  I hate admitting this, but family gatherings make me unbelievably anxious.  I enjoy my family members, but being all together sends me into an internal panic.  We're loud.  We're excitable.  We're loud.  We're passionate.  Oh yeah, and we're LOUD.  I'm hyper-sensitive to loud noises and chaotic environments, so family gatherings (which are inherently loud and chaotic) just by their very nature send me over the edge.  I dread holidays because I know it means a lot of time with family.  I physically feel sick before gatherings and find my stomach in knots for hours beforehand but I rarely talk about it for fear of people thinking I am a terrible daughter/sister/grand-daughter/niece/cousin/whatever.  Within the first hour, I'm always more than ready to go back home or, if my family is hosting, retreat to my bedroom.  But again, social norms say that's unacceptable and that I should want to be a part of the action and that I should try to be as funny and loud and entertaining as everyone else.  So I tough it out until I can't take it anymore.  And without fail, I cry from emotional exhaustion and feel emotionally hungover for hours (and sometimes even days) afterwards.  When social conventions say that our time with our family is the most important and happy time (and when you do enjoy your family - just in smaller groups), it makes you feel like a garbage person to admit that family exacerbates your mental illness.

I wear a mask in public.  Mental illness is confusing, because I often feel like I want and need to be social at times (you know, in controlled settings with safe people), but sometimes when it comes time to being social, my first instinct is usually to bail.  I have done this a lot before, especially when I'm not in a good place.  These days, I do feel like I have better control over my mental illness, so I'm not flaking out on my friends like I have in the past.  However, I always have to fight the urge to text and say I'm not feeling well.  Regardless of who the person is or what we're planning to do, this is always my feeling.  I'm working incredibly hard to push through these feelings, though, and to follow through with my friends.  And 9 times out of 10, I wind up having a fantastic time and we laugh a lot and create wonderful memories.  But when I get home, I crash.  I need a lot of time to recover after social situations.  I used to be embarrassed by this, but as I am learning more and more about how to live with my mental illness, I am feeling less ashamed of taking all of the time I need to recharge.

This brings me to the place where I can take my mask off and breathe easily: my sanctuary.  I'm living at home, and my bedroom is in our basement.  We have a family room down here as well.  Our basement is my sanctuary.  I spent much of my free time down here doing everything I need to in order to take care of myself.  I read in my sanctuary.  I write in my sanctuary (yes, I am writing this from my desk downstairs right now!).  I draw and paint and color in my sanctuary.  I text with my friends in my sanctuary.  I nap, clean, eat, rest, cuddle my dog, learn, listen to music, cry, watch my favorite Netflix shows...it all happens in my sanctuary.  My holy, sacred space where I can take off my mask and allow myself to be 100% me.  I'll venture upstairs to talk with my parents at times - when I'm feeling energetic, I typically have "diarrhea of the mouth" (as my parents call it) or I'll make them laugh with my spontaneous song-and-dance numbers.  When I'm feeling vulnerable and anxious or depressed, I'll spill what's on my heart to them.  And when all is said and done, I return to my sanctuary to rest my soul again.

You Deserve This

In order to continue on my track to wellness, I am making some major life changes that are at once exciting and terrifying.  As I sat today thinking about it, I could feel my anxiety level shooting skyward.  I was reminded of something my therapist said to me yesterday as I processed it all with her.  She said, "Brynn.  You have put yourself off for too long and it has been destroying you.  Now, you are putting yourself first for maybe the first time ever.  You deserve this." I repeated these words to myself over and over and decided to create this to remind myself that I am worth putting myself first.  I certainly do deserve it.

Gravity

Note: This post contains discussion of emotional and sexual abuse.

I was going through old videos on my phone for the first time since getting divorced.  I found all kinds of funny (subjective) Snapchat stories I had made of myself having solo dance parties and Broadway music singalongs.  I smiled as I watched them...they're goofy and they very much capture the true essence of Brynn.

Nestled in between these videos were some more serious videos I had made of me singing full versions of songs.  Sometimes I shared these songs on my Facebook page, and sometimes I just recorded them for me.

One of these videos was made in June 2016.  I remember recording it very distinctly.  It was my last day of school/work.  I was so happy to be done for the school year and begged my then-husband to stay home with me that night to celebrate the end of the year.  He refused, saying he needed to go out with his friends.  I was left all alone.  I was sad and lonely, so I resorted to my favorite coping mechanism: I set up my phone, pulled up my favorite silly karaoke video YouTube channel, and started to sing.

The song is "Gravity," by Sara Bareilles.  It's a beautiful, gut-wrenching song, written after Sara's first true heartbreak.  She talks about being emotionally pulled back to that person, even though their relationship is over. (You can watch my cover on YouTube here).

Looking back at this video and remembering what was going on in my life at the time I recorded it, I was struck with painfully strong emotions I haven't felt in a long time.  Just a couple of weeks before, my then-husband had told me that he had been thinking of driving his car off a bridge and ending his life because of his dissatisfaction with our marriage (of which he blamed all of his dissatisfaction on me).  He had been saying for several years that he would divorce me if I didn't have sex with him more often (even though he knew I am a survivor of sexual assault and such threats are no way to "convince" someone to be intimate with you).  And when I asked him to go to couples counseling with me, he said he didn't think that was necessary, but instead, I needed therapy individually to work on my anxiety (which he also claims was the only thing that would fix our marriage).  I knew in my head that I was in an emotionally abusive and manipulative marriage and had been for several years.  I suffered in silence because I was embarrassed, ashamed, and desperately didn't want to become a statistic.  However, my heart loved things about him and I was stuck about what to do.  It was just weeks after this video was recorded that I knew I had had enough of the manipulation and abuse, decided my life and happiness were worth more than what I had been living with, and moved back home with my parents.

Watching this video again and seeing how differently I look and sound in it compared with the goofy Snapchat stories taken around the same time tore me apart emotionally.  I sat watching them tonight and sobbed.  The happy-go-lucky girl I showed on social media had deep, dark secrets inside that she kept to herself purely because of shame.  I was made to believe that I was flawed, that my anxiety was preventing me from being able to love (and be loved), and I was left feeling alone, desperate, and disgusted with myself.

I know now that I deserve better than how I was treated in my marriage.  I have so many wonderful qualities that I bring to those around me, and I need to remember this as I decide whether to let another person into my heart.  It's far too precious to experience anything less than unconditional, genuine, whole love.

AND

Not too long ago, one of my best friends in the whole world (HI JOURDAN!) sent me an Instagram story by a woman named Jen Gotch (follow her @jengotch - seriously, do it).  I watched it a couple of times, scratching my head.  I asked Jourdan, "Is this woman for real?!"  

You see, Jen is a quirky woman.  She wears a lot of pink, sparkly, girly things.  If you scroll through her Instagram feed, you'll see bright colors, hilarious throwback photos, animated facial expressions, and a woman who seems to have it all together.  Jen is the founder of Bando, a brand that designs accessories, clothing, stationery, etc.  On their website itself, they say they are "inspired by the power of friendship, the good old days, and all things fun."  Jen lives this brand, as you can clearly see on her social media accounts.

There's something else I love about Jen that you will prominently see featured on Instagram.  Jen has clinical depression.  She posts raw photos with even more raw descriptions of what she's feeling...and how she describes her depression feels so similar to how I experience mine.  She says that she shares not for sympathy, but because it makes her feel better and she wants to feel better.  (If you want to read more about her and see a sample of what she writes, PLEASE check out this brief article written about her this summer.)

I admire this woman for so many reasons.  But one of the things I want to focus on is how Jen is a strong woman AND enjoys life AND runs a huge, successful company AND has clinical depression AND has a great sense of humor AND, AND, AND.  See, Jen doesn't let her depression define her, but she doesn't ignore it either.  She is doing precisely what I want to do with my own life: document life - the good, the bad, the ugly, the depressed, the victories, etc.

By sharing about her life (which includes, but is not defined by, depression), Jen is raising awareness to the fact that a person can have mental illness AND still be a kickass woman.  How cool (and inspiring!) is that?!

I've had many people in my life concerned about whether I should be sharing about my mental illness in such a public way, worrying that people will think I'm unable to do my job or that they'll think I'm a non-functioning person.  Here's what I say to that: I feel like I'm damned if I share, and I'm damned if I don't.  I know that I have felt such comfort reading and hearing stories about people like Jen, who know what it's like to live with mental illness but also have fulfilling, successful lives.  I also know that I have been overwhelmed with love and support from so many of the amazing people in my life who have responded positively to my own story.

So here I am, saying: I am depressed AND anxious AND a feminist AND a wonderful friend AND a capable school counselor AND a supportive sister/daughter AND a musician AND an artist AND a dog-lover AND a Harry Potter fanatic AND an introvert AND a wannabe traveler AND a person who is just trying to live her life with purpose and intention.

Thank You for Being a Friend

My main diagnoses are depression and anxiety.  Looking back, it's clear that I have lived with anxiety since I was a very little girl.  I worried about everything, I suffered from recurring nightmares and struggled with sleep, I had frequent chest pains with no physical causes, stomach issues, was very preoccupied with doing the right thing and not wanting to disappoint those around me, and have been an intense perfectionist since I was very, very little.

At age 14, my parents brought me to the doctor and I was diagnosed with a non-specified depressive disorder.  I had horrible self-esteem, struggled with making and keeping friends, stuck to myself a lot of the time, cried easily and frequently, and had next to zero coping skills.  That's when therapy started for me, which I have continued on and off (mostly on) since then.

It wasn't until October 2016 that I started on medication and was officially diagnosed with generalized and social anxiety disorders.  And this fall, I was officially diagnosed with major depression disorder, recurring.  I've switched to a new medication as of a month ago and I feel like it's already starting to make a difference (thank GOD).  However, I still struggle with my mental health every single day.

Having anxiety is challenging and having depression is challenging; having both together is downright awful and confusing.  The anxiety ramps up my nervous system and I find myself panicking about lack of productivity and all of the things I "should" be doing.  Simultaneously, my depression zaps me of all motivation and tells me, "You might as well not even try."  When I am at my best, I am an organized, tidy person.  I look around my bedroom right now, and you can absolutely tell a depressed person is living there: a mountain of dirty clothes next to a full hamper, trash laying around, dirty water cups in a stack next to my door (because I have no energy to literally walk them upstairs and put them in the dishwasher), clean towels sitting on top of a shoe rack from two weeks ago (because taking them 5 steps to the bathroom to hang up seems insurmountable).  I have no drive to clean up, but when I look around me, my anxiety says, "You're a slob, you're disgusting, can't you just clean up your shit?!  You'll feel so much better if you can just put away your things!"

I currently have 17 unread text messages and 6 missed calls or voicemails on my phone.  I have friends who have reached out to me to get together, to offer condolences about my grandpa's death (yes, my dear Grandpa Paul passed away on Tuesday...this is certainly not helping my current mental health), to send me things that they know will make me smile and laugh, and any other number of unknown reasons because I can't bring myself to open the damn messages up.  These things make me feel like a terrible friend and person.  It sounds so stupid to someone who doesn't understand mental illness (and even to me, who very much understands it and lives it!), but I just can't make myself do anything right now other than sit in the basement, wrapped up in a blanket, reading books or watching YouTube videos about creating art.  Anything else is too much for me to handle.

It's absolutely mortifying to admit this all.  I feel like a garbage person.  At my best, I am not this person.  I care about my relationships - although right now you'd never know it.  I value organization in my living space - although right now you'd never know it.  I care about how I present myself - although right now you'd never know it.

Some of my friends completely understand where I'm at and have consistently showed me grace and understanding as I muddle through existing every day.  When they say, "Don't feel like you need to respond to this, just know I love you and I am thinking of you and will be here for you when you're ready" or "I'm having an introvert day today.  Want to get together and sit next to each other in silence and watch The Office and color?" it shows me that they understand mental illness and that they are not going to abandon me.  This is important to me because depression prevents me from being in contact with my friends, but anxiety's voice is louder, telling me that I'm a horrible person and that all my friends will leave me if I can't get it together.

If you know someone who is struggling with mental illness, please extend grace and patience.  We hear everything you say, we love you, we are beyond grateful for your love and support.  We might not be able to show it at times, but it doesn't change the way we feel about you.  In the immortal words of the Golden Girls theme song, "Thank you for being a friend."

Thirty

Today is my 30th birthday.

I've never been someone who has really been bothered by getting older, considering every birthday a gift.  However, this year feels different to me.

I've always thought I would have my life figured out by the time I turned 30.  I thought I'd be happily married, maybe with a child or two, living in my own house, kicking butt at paying off student loans and feeling secure in myself, my relationships, and my life situation in general.  Oh, how I was wrong.

Here's the reality of my life, at age 30:

• I'm divorced.
• I live in my parents' basement.
• I do not have children (nor am I an aunt anymore since getting divorced).
• I have lots of student loan debt.
• I have another failed post-divorce relationship.
• I commute over an hour (one way!) to a job that I enjoy but that is incredibly draining.
• I'm drowning in depression and anxiety.

In a lot of ways, I'm not doing as well at age 30 as I imagined.  As 30 approached, all I could focus on was how embarrassed, ashamed, and sad I felt for everything that I'm not: married, a parent, debt-free, on my own, mentally well, stable.

Someone recently showed me this quote, though, and it's been rolling through my head for the past several days.

All of the shame and embarrassment I was feeling was completely due to someone else's timelines, not my own!  I found myself measuring my own life to where I see other people in my life who are around my same age and feeling like a total failure for not having what they have or for what I wanted (and still maybe do want?).

I needed to re-frame how I was approaching this new decade.  My 20s were challenging, yes, filled with some of the darkest and most awful times I have ever experienced.  However, they also were a time when I grew and learned an incredible amount about myself.  All that I have experienced and learned in my 20s are things that I can (and will!) take with me in this new decade.

Instead of focusing on what I've lost or don't have, here's a list of some of the gifts I DO have:

• Two loving and gracious parents who have welcomed me home without batting an eye.
• A brother and sister-in-law who love me and support me more than I ever thought possible.
• Friends - new and old - who accept me as I am, make me laugh, genuinely enjoy my company, and inspire me to be a better woman.
• Extended family who support me and care about me.
• A goofy and sweet black lab, Rooney, who is my emotional rock and reason to keep on going.
• Health insurance that allows me to see my fantastic therapist and psychiatrist, and that covers my medications to help my brain and body be healthier.
• An experience of a true loving relationship.
• Hobbies and coping skills to get myself through each and every day.
• Knowing that I am a kickass school counselor (despite my mental illnesses!)
• A church community that gives me hope and stability.
• Passion for things that matter and the drive to act upon them.

I'm looking forward to leaving the shitty 20s behind and face this new decade with bravery - and maybe even a little optimism - with the knowledge I have gained and the support of those who love me.